


I Want To Fly

by Ninjakitty721



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Blood, Death, Evil King, Explicit Language, F/M, Fire, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Poor Liam, Poor Louis, Poor Niall, Prince Harry - Freeform, Rebel Liam, Rebel Louis, Rebel Niall, Rebellion, Royal Harry, Royal Zayn, Sad, Sorry Not Sorry, Violence, a shit ton of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6709411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjakitty721/pseuds/Ninjakitty721
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sky is a dull grey, cloudy and dark. It reminds Harry of himself-he is a thunderstorm, filled with rain clouds and thunder and lightning, but he is endless, unbounded, unrestricted.<br/>And Harry feels lighter than ever before-powerful and unstoppable-as he sits there, tied up and alone, in the dark.<br/>Or,<br/>Harry is the crown prince of England. His father, the King, is a violent, cruel man-the monster that Harry wants to escape. The Rebellion may just help him do that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can You Take Me Far Away?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is currently leaning against the rough wood wall, his eyes half closed as the carriage jolts along the paved path. His body aches-it is battered and bruised, covered in scattered scratches and discolored purple marks. The position that he is is uncomfortable, and the hard surface seems to become more solid with every passing hour. His hands are tied behind his back, painfully tight, and he's lost the feeling in his fingers.  
> Harry squeezes his eyes shut. A second later, they widen and he looks out the small window and the rusty iron bars that stretch from the top to bottom, giving it the feeling of a jail cell. In a way, it is- he is kidnapped, captured for the rebel movement, a prisoner.  
> But he is free-freer than he's ever been, far away from his father. Harry feels like a bird, like he can spread his wings and take to the sky. So he sits there, in the dark wooden cage of his, and dreams of flying away.

     Harry does not know how long he has been sitting here. His only friend is the moon, which was currently shining through his little window, and it seems to be taunting him with its freedom. The night air is sharp and cool, and dark shadows cast themselves across the small room that Harry is currently. His capturers are up near the front of the carriage, with a door separating them. Every once in awhile, there’s a soft chatter, but it’s mostly quiet.

     Eventually, the stars started to fade out, and bright oranges and reds and yellows burst from the ground. The sight is breathtaking, and Harry takes a moment to admire the view. Harry rarely gets to be outdoors and see the sunrise, so he doesn’t take it for granted. He blinks lazily at the brilliant sun and slumps further down the rough wooden wall, trying to wiggle his fingers that are tied tightly behind his back.

     His body is almost completely numb-the nasty looking bruises and cuts scattered across his torso had lost their feeling. Dried blood sticks to his shirt, and Harry knew that it was going to be painful to separate the cloth from his skin. The cuts are raw, because he had gotten them just a little while before Rebels burst into his bedroom. It wasn’t even that bad-his father had been pissed when he saw Harry giving some bread to a servant and he’d gave him a few blows, but he knew that they probably wouldn’t scar.

* * *

 

_“They’re slaves, Harry, peasants! You’re the next king. Kings don’t associate with people like them, and they definitely don’t help them. You’re already sixteen, so start acting like it!” His hand lashed out and caught him in the chest. Harry stumbled backwards and slammed against the wall, but he kept his face impassive. Inside, he’s screaming, but he knows by now to keep his mouth shut until his father leaves. He wasn’t able to sleep at all because his father had him doing continuous laps around the entire castle last night, and his eyes feel like they want to be sewn shut._

_“I don’t give a shit about them, so you don’t give a shit about them. If I see you giving any of those bastards more food, you won’t be sleeping for an entire week. I’ll have you out with slaves doing work. Understand?”_

     What about his family, _Harry wanted to yell._ What about his wife and his children? _Harry didn’t know the servant that well, but he had heard him talking about his two daughters and how they hadn’t eaten the entire day. What else was he supposed to do, let them starve and know that he had pretty much killed two kids? Harry knew that he should be tougher, less kind, but it was his fatal flaw. He couldn’t just let someone suffer because of his father, and was often getting in trouble for it._

_Harry stood there as blows rained down on him, and hoped that the servant had gotten too far for his father to track him. When his father decided that he was done with Harry, he whipped around and stalked off, his fancy velvet robes swirling around his feet. Harry glared hatefully at his expensive boots until they rounded the corner and disappeared. He could hear his father already yelling at some other poor person that had gotten in his way. Harry looked down at the damage done-he was wearing a simple white tunic, which was already starting to dye red, and his black pants were darkening slightly._

_Harry dragged himself back to his own personal chambers, ignoring the pitying looks of those around him. He probably looked like a mess, stumbling, bleeding, with dark circles around his eyes and an air of exhaustion. It really wasn’t anything new-almost all servants and guards had either been saved by Harry or had seen him beaten up, but no one would dare to say anything against the King. The people around him parted to let him through, and a few murmured words of encouragement._

_The kind words and the people around him were the only reason Harry was even living. He knew that his father was a tyrant and ruled with an iron fist, but he also knew that his father would eventually die. Then, Harry could take over and make things right, but for now all he could do was keep his head down and wait._

_The thought of his people gave him a sense hope and determination, but today, Harry was exhausted. Being a good person could wait until tomorrow. Harry made it up to his room, and put on a new, darker shirt. He could feel the sweat and blood that he was coated in, but the urge to sleep was too much. He curled up on the ground, too lazy to take a shower and not wanting to get the bed dirty. Harry promised himself that he’d clean the cuts later, when he had the energy-but he never got the chance to._

_The rebels came at night, bursting through his door. Harry was wide awake immediately, hoping that it wasn’t his father. The king would usually come up to his rooms, drunk off his ass, screaming cuss words and throwing things. He hadn’t taken the death of the Queen well, and when Gemma had--well, things changed. Normally, his father could control himself, but when he drank, his anger towards Harry increased, and the words cut deeper than the actual blows. The drunk version was more terrifying than his normal father, because he was a whole new person, one that wouldn’t know how far he could go without actually killing Harry. Those nights, Harry would truly fear for his life._

_However, it wasn’t his father. Shadowed figures flooded into his room with a sense of purpose, and Harry was too exhausted to understand what was going on. The relief that came when he realized that it wasn’t his father gave him a feeling of numb happiness, and he really wasn’t thinking straight as the men efficiently tied his hands together and smuggled him down to the waiting carriage. He could see white symbol sticking out of the black shirt of one of the men. It was the Rebel symbol._

_The rebellion had been happening for a while-so many people were angry at the King, and it was only a matter of time before they banded together to fight back. Harry had heard about the fires, the battles, the dead and injured. It didn’t really matter much to him-if his father died, the world would be a better place, anyways. Harry would probably banished from the throne or killed, but that wasn’t important-he didn’t have anyone or anything important to live for._

_The white symbol wavered in and out of his vision, and Harry suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion. He was so numb at that moment that he actually closed his eyes and felt his consciousness drifting off. Everything went black, and Harry drifted into a dreamless sleep._

* * *

 

     When Harry had woken up, it was dark. He guessed that it had been over twenty four hours-the longest he’d ever slept-because he felt well-rested. The carriage rocked under him, and it took him a while to remember where he was. _Rebels._ For some reason, that idea created a burst of something in his stomach. Knowing his father first hand made him hate the King, and although the people of the rebellion didn’t know it, he was on their side.

     Harry tried to stretch, but his shoulders were stiff, and he wasn’t able to move very much. The wooden floor of the carriage was hard, and every movement jolted his entire body. Although he was aching with pain, he knew that the Rebels had not laid a hand on him-everything was his father’s doing. It was almost ironic, really, how the people that had kidnapped weren’t the ones who gave him bruises. Harry preferred the rebels, and so far, no one had laid a hand on him. It was like a strange case of Stockholm syndrome.

     Harry sat there in silence, thinking about what would happen. Kidnapping of royalty like this wasn’t very common, but Harry guessed that it was most likely a hostage situation. What was different was that Harry’s father didn’t give a shit about him, and definitely wouldn’t stand down or give money in order to get him back. The whole operation would be a flop, but Harry hoped that he’d get a while of freedom before he was probably killed, or whatever happens to unneeded royalty.

     Before his mind wandered any further, there was a small _click_ and the door on the opposite side of the room creaked open. A boy, probably around twenty or so, stepped inside. He was pretty muscular, with a hint of a beard, and brown hair and eyes. His jaw was set, and it looked like his mouth was set in a permanent frown. Then, without a word, he took a quick glance at Harry’s stiff form, turned around, and walked right out. Before Harry could question it, a muffled voice ringed out-

     “He’s awake.” The voice is low and soft, and Harry attached it to the boy from earlier.

     “Already?” The next voice is loud and-Irish? It sounds slightly surprised. “He hit his head on the door pretty hard.”

 _Oh, I did?_ Harry frowns. He vaguely remembers a small, fake struggle before he had fallen back asleep. They must have thought that he had been knocked unconscious when they accidentally bumped him against the door frame. _It would take a lot more than that to actually knock him out._ But they didn’t need to know. If they thought that Harry was fragile, hopefully they’d be easier on him.

     It went silent after that, and Harry continued to stare out the window as the sun kept rising, and eventually, sinking. The same boy as before would come in to check on him, probably to make sure that Harry hadn’t escaped. There were a few muffled conversations, and Harry counted three voices.

     Only three voices-three people to capture the crown prince of Europe. It was sad, how little they thought of Harry. He could have easily fought and probably won against the three, if he wanted to. Then again, most people think that Harry is kind of like a flower prince-no one ever really sees him, but when they do, it’s all smiles and dimples and curls. During public dinners and parades, Harry is always told to keep quiet and wave, to charm the people, but never have voice. He’s pretty sure that majority of the people like him-the image of a naive and innocent teen means that he isn’t to blame for anything. So while Harry sits, waves, and shows off his dimples, he imagines the most gruesome ways to kill the King.

     “Liam, could you give pretty boy some water?” A voice calls out, cutting into his thoughts, and there’s a muffled grunt of assent before the door opens again. The boy, which Harry now recognizes as Liam, comes in with a metal canteen. As he silently approaches him, Harry starts to notice the slight dehydration of his throat. It’s completely quiet as Liam unscrews the cap, raises it to his lips, and lets him drink. The process is done quickly, Liam is back out of the door, and Harry is left alone to his thoughts.

     This routine continues for a few days. They feed him and give him water, but the contact is limited and no one ever says a word. Harry himself has not spoken the entire time, but he is starting to recover from his sleepless days and injuries from the palace, and most of his cuts have started healing.

     Harry starts wonders if his father actually sent out troops to find him. Although they did not have a father-son relationship or any kind of bond, his father _had_ spent his entire life training Harry to be strong, skilled, and ready to be King. Even if he wasn’t thought of as a son, Harry knew that he was a trophy of sorts, a prize for his father, to show how well the King could make a near-unstoppable machine. All of the pain that he’d went through was because his father had a strange idea of how to raise a son and no morals when it came to blood. He knew that he was replaceable, just another object for his father to use, but he didn’t know whether his father would find it easier to chase after Harry or find someone completely new to do sixteen years of training on.

     But now that Harry thought about it, it sounded stupid. Of course his father wasn’t going to leave him alone, not after he’d put so much effort into shaping Harry into a King. He wasn’t going to throw sixteen years away. Harry’s heart sank. He was stupid to imagine being free. He’d just enjoy his time alone, before eventually being caught and taken back to his father, or killed.

Taken back to his father.

Shit.

     His father was probably furious right now. The King was one of the only people that knew that Harry could singlehandedly take on a few rebels-easily. His father would definitely know that Harry didn’t try, that he had let the rebels take him. He’d know that Harry had escaped him on purpose. Harry had spent his entire life learning how to fight-there was no way that a handful of people could easily subdue him and take him, without even a hint of a struggle. It was obvious that Harry left.

     His father never went easy, not even on the small mistakes that Harry makes. Not being able to do something or disobeying him might get him a few bruises, but actually escaping was a whole new thing. It wasn’t just crossing the line, it was jumping over, completely obliterating it. Harry would be lucky if he got out alive after his father was done with him. The sudden realization left Harry’s breathing ragged and his heart pounding.

     Harry takes in deep gasps of air, trying to calm his beating heart. He can feel the last strings keeping him mentally attached to Earth breaking. It’s not often that Harry slips into a panic attack, but when he does, they’re awful and painful. Harry tries to calm down, but his mind is jumbled and all of this thoughts swirl around. A pained sound escapes his lips, and Harry slumps down against the wall, thumping his head.

     His eyes glaze over and his breathing is irregular. He can feel cold sweat dripping down his neck, and it’s hot then cold then hot then cold. The only conscious part of him knows that his panic attacks were long, and he desperately hopes that no one comes in. They’re crushed immediately, as the door opens up and someone steps into the room.

     “What’s going on? I heard-” Liam’s voice cuts off as he sees Harry. He probably looks awful, trembling and choking for air. Harry can hear the words bounce around in his head, but he can’t connect them together. It’s as though his head’s underwater.

     “Shit, Louis, come here. Something’s wrong.” A second later, footsteps echo and Harry can vaguely see another silhouette join Liam. They just stand there, watching Harry shaking violently and gasping. It’s unnerving, being in such a strange situation, but Harry is almost glad that he’s here, with complete strangers watching him freak out, rather than his father. The King always just kicked him until he snapped out of it, or fell unconscious. The thought of his father makes Harry’s throat starts to close up and he tries to focus on breathing.

_In. Out. In. Out._

     “What’s goin’ on? Lou, Li, did Princey do somethin’?” The Irish voice rings out, but Harry is too far gone to understand. He’s still shaking, but he can feel his breathing start to even out. He knows that after the first stage is over, his body usually starts to feel like it’s being twisted by an invisible force, and his insides get crushed by an imaginary pressure. Harry lies there and waits.

_In. Out. In. Out._

     “I dunno. He’s just lying there, shaking, and I don’t think he’s breathing properly. It’s kinda weird.” Liam replies. His eyes are glued on Harry, and he seems at a loss as to what to do.

     “I think it’s a panic attack. My friend used to get ‘em.” Louis speaks this time, but the words are disconnected. Harry can see his mouth moving, and his eyes tracing Harry’s trembling body. After that, they’re completely silent, except for Harry’s choked breathing. Then the pain comes.

     Harry lets out an invisible scream, arching his back. It feels like his rib cage is being pushed together, and his lungs are being crushed. He can take pain and blood, but this imaginary force, the feelings inside of himself that he can’t control, is a whole new level. Harry tries to scream again, and this time, a pained cry escapes his lips.

_In. Out. In. Out._

     Then, suddenly, the silhouettes are moving close, and Harry has a person on either side of him. His ropes are being cut and he can move his arms. They’re stiff and throb slightly but Harry barely notices. Someone’s speaking, and the voices float around, just out of reach.

     “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Someone is running their hands through his tangled curls, and another rests on his shoulder. It’s a strange feeling, these two complete strangers comforting him, comforting part of the monarchy that they want to destroy. It’s even stranger for Harry, because he’s not used to feeling this vulnerable, this _human._ Usually, he just has this detached feeling, like he’s watching everything play out, but right now, it’s all him. Everything that is happening is because of him.

     “Is there anything that we can do?” Liam’s voice is loud and breaks through the foggy wall that Harry’s mind has built.

     “No, I think that we just wait it out.” After the reply, the voices fade away from Harry’s mind. The pain continues for a while, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut, pretending that he’s not there, that these two Rebels aren’t seeing him having a panic attack.

     But they are. Louis and Liam are both still kneeling there, watching with a slight concern, and it’s over thirty minutes later that Harry completely calms down. Once his breathing is regular and he has control over his body, Harry slightly opens his eyes and looks up. It’s completely silent for a moment, before the new boy, Louis, says,

     “You alright?” His voice is soft and floaty, and Harry can’t do anything but squeeze his eyes shut again and nod. The concern still feels strange-he’s the son of the guy that they want to kill. Harry continues to lie there, thinking of anything but the helpless position he’s in.

     The effects of the panic attack start to fade away. Harry lets out a small sigh and slightly cracks open his eyes, looking up at the two people. They’re now standing, looking at him curiously, and Harry wishes that they’d go away and leave him alone to wallow in his own misery. The entire thing is too overwhelming, and Harry’s exhausted. These two Rebels are so different from anyone that he’s ever met, and the unfamiliarity of it is unsettling.

     Eventually, they both decide to not question it and turn around, giving him one last glance before stepping through the door and closing it. The muffled talking starts again, but Harry cancels it out and stares up at the ceiling.

     As Harry lies there, the feeling of embarrassment starts to trickle in. He hadn’t had a panic attack in over a year, but having two people witness it was even worse. The one thing that bothered him was simply how _normal_ everything was. They came in, acted like he was someone they knew, like he wasn’t weird for randomly having a panic attack, like it was an everyday thing. As he wasn’t the Prince, as if he wasn’t kidnapped, as if he was a normal boy.

     Harry stares out the window, seeing the clouds float by. It’s midday but the sun is faint, and it’s completely quiet. The carriage continues on, rolling over the gravel path, and things slowly return back to normal. Liam comes in a while later with more water and some food, but Harry turns it away, knowing that if he ate anything, he’d probably throw up.

     It’s in the middle of the afternoon when Harry notices it-smoke. It seems quite far away, but gets thicker as they continue on. The smell is strong and Harry can feel his lungs tighten. Soon, a bright red flickers into his vision. It’s a small farmhouse, completely on fire. The flames flicker, illuminating the pale blue sky, and the stench of ashes rises and floats around. There doesn’t seem to be anything else around, just the lone building and surrounding fields. Harry wonders what caused it, and if the people in the carriage would do something. He can barely hear the muffled voices coming from the front of the carriage because his ears are still sensitive from the panic attack, and he can’t hear properly. They’re nearing the burning house when the whole carriage suddenly jerks to a stop.

     It takes Harry a second to hear the screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	2. Give Me A Star To Reach For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry doesn’t know why he’s here right now or what everyone thinks of him. All that he cares about is the young boy, lying unmoving under him. He’s so young, so young, and Harry bites his lip, knowing that he was seconds away from looking up at the emotionless sun and screaming at the sky, screaming at the world, screaming at life.  
> But he doesn’t-instead, he focuses his attention on the boy. There’s so much blood, and it pools around the still form, almost like it had came from the ground to swallow him up. Is this what I looked like to Gemma? Harry wondered, blinking back tears. If it was, he finally understood why she left.  
> A grim determination claws its way out of his chest, along with a burning anger at how unfair everything was, and Harry tries to save the boy. In that moment, he does everything he possible to fight the unfairness of life and the unfairness of death.

     The screams are sharp and shrill, and Harry feels like his ears are bleeding. He can hear the pain and the fear in the voices-It was something that Harry recognized well from experience, except that this time, it wasn't coming from him. There's something so animalistic about screaming-it's raw and pure, and it's universal: everyone screams in the same language.

     It was deafening, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, torn as of what to do. He had heard all three men leave the carriage already, and he guessed that they were going to try and help them, but the screams wouldn’t stop, and Harry couldn’t stand hearing them, knowing that someone was in pain. A second later, the screams rose into a cry for help, and Harry made his decision-he would go out and see what was happening and if he could help.

     The hardest part was just standing up. It felt like his muscles had disappeared and all he had left were bones, grinding together painfully. They ached with unuse, and his legs burned. He managed to stand up shakily, his knees wobbling together, and leaned heavily against the wall, gasping for breath. He hesitated for a second-what use was a worn body, with arms tied? But the screams heightened, laced with terror, and Harry's body moved of its own accord. Almost robotically, his feet led him towards the door, and then his shoulder turned to slam against it. It only took three tries for the rotting, soft wood to splinter, and Harry forcefully shouldered his way through, ignoring the sharp pricks of pain as small bits dug into his skin.

     The carriage insides are simple, wooden benches and a large chest. The three men that once occupied the space are nowhere to be seen. Harry ignored his surroundings, immediately heading to the opening on the side and jumping off of the wooden structure, landing with a jolt. Pain streaks up his body, but he continues onward, past the two skittish horses. His mind goes numb with shock as he rounds the carriage and takes in the sight before him.

     The house is completely on fire- the brilliant, warm colored flames lick up to the sky, devouring the pale blue with thick dark smoke. The screams are faint as they compete to be heard over the crackling, popping, and hissing. Harry's feet stumble forward, nearing the unbelievable heat, and as the next wave of warmth washes over him, his eyes close involuntarily, surging him back into unwelcomed memories of bright, hot pain.

* * *

_      Harry knew that he had fucked up, bad. The nine year old boy cowered in his dark corner, his trembling hands raised in defense. He sunk further into the shadows, wishing that he could melt into the unforgiving stone, or disappear altogether. He could hear his father's footsteps draw closer, the loud  _ thump thump thump _ as the only sound. The silence is harsh and foreboding, and Harry hates the unspoken promises of pain that loom above him. All of the artificial confidence that once surged through him had disappeared-there was not a trace of bravery left in him. _ _  
_

_      He really hadn't meant to fight back; he just couldn't stand seeing the servant girl-barely twenty-being harassed by his father. When the King's polished boot flashed upwards, Harry had shot forward, jumping in between his father and the trembling girl, and had gotten a strong kick to his ribs. But he continued to stand there, defiant, shielding the girl. _ _  
_

_      "Move, Harry." His father's voice was steady, but Harry could hear the controlled anger seeping out of the words. And although Harry was starting to tremble himself, he refused to budge. The unknown confidence that came from fighting back gave him the power to not back down. The girl took her chance and scrambled to her feet, escaping the situation before it got violent. Harry could hear the patter of her footsteps slowly fade down the hallway, and with it, all of his bravery. A feeling of dread pooled into his stomach, and he cast his eyes down, scuffling his feet.  _ _  
_

_      When he flitted his gaze up, the figure of his father stood tall and fearsome. He could see the fingers in his right arm twitching, before the shoulder tensed up and locked backwards, the sign of a soon-to-come blow. Harry hesitated for a second before suddenly jerking forward and ducking, narrowly dodging the open palm aimed at him. He used his momentum to rocket forward, taking long strides down the hallway. He could hear his father following him, angry shouts reasoning in his ears. His heart was in his throat as he hurtled forward, barely managing to grab the edge of the stone wall and swing himself around the corner, continuing his flight. He flew past several startled servants, who immediately got out of the way and hurried into any other room or hallway-it was a common occurrence for the prince to be running, but a furious king always followed, and no one wanted to face his wrath. _ _  
_

_      Harry's breath was ragged as he continued running, jumping down flights of stairs and racing through hallways. Right now, all that mattered was his escape; he was the prey and his father, the predator. His path was random as zigzagged through the halls, hoping to throw off the chase. If he could get away and find a place to hide, he could wait until hopefully, his father calmed down.  _ _  
_

_      But no such luck- he ran into a dead end. The room he entered was immediately recognized as the smelting room, where the royal blacksmiths created metal tools. The furnace was currently on, and Harry could feel the heat from across the room. He hurried past rows of metal objects hung on the walls, to the corner furthest from the door, and shoved himself against the cold stone surface. _ _  
_

_      And now, he stared up at his father's face, the eyes dark with rage, the gritted teeth pulled back into a snarl. A storm of fear brewed in his stomach, sloshing his feelings around in a hurricane of emotions. He stayed crouching, preparing himself for the worst. His father took a step forward, then another, then another, until he was standing right in front of him. And then his father did the unexpected- he ignored Harry. Instead, opening the furnace, he carefully pulled out a metal rod that had been roasting. He held it up high, showing of the bright red, slightly melted tip, that was giving off sparks and sizzling in the cool air. As it neared Harry, he realized what his father planned to do, and the terror took over. _ _  
_

_      "You never learn, do you?" His father's voice washed over him, floaty and filled with malice. "I guess I'm gonna have to try and teach you to obey me, again."  _ _  
_

_      For the next hour, the furnace room was filled with sharp screams of pain and the overwhelming stench of burning skin. _ _  
_

_      Gemma had found his charred body, curled up and unconscious, in the corner of the room, tear streaks down his cheeks. It was no wonder that she was gone a week later. _

* * *

     "No-" Harry lets out a gasp, the imprinted, burning memory flashing in front of his eyes. The echoes of his screams from years ago, alone and afraid in that dark, heated room mixed with the current ones and suddenly, savage anger coursed through his body. He would not let another life be ruined, not by the unbearable heat. He was stumbling towards the burning house, and then taking long strides across the ground, and then sprinting towards the heat as fast as he could.  _ Please, _ he begged silently.  _ Don't let anyone die today, not like this.  _ The numb energy surged through him as he slammed, chest first, against the half-gone door, unmindful of the pain. Kneeling down he shoved his tied hands against the flickering flames, which made quick work of the charred bonds, and the skin on his hands. 

     He couldn't feel the bright, red-singed skin across his palms as he raced deeper into the house, following the screams. The house was quickly deteriorating under the deadly fire, and almost every hallway was filled with the bright flames and collapsing wood. Splinters and ashes filled the cloudy air, and it seemed like a scene from Hell. Harry knew that his bare feet were running on top of burning wood, but the adrenaline spurred him on. 

     He burst into the center-room, literally ablaze, skidding to a halt at the scene. Both Liam and Louis were there, each of them struggling with a young girl in their arms. There was a man sitting on the ground, clutching an unconscious lady in his arms. His face was covered in fear, anger, and raw pain. Another boy, blonde haired, was looking for a way out, but without success-every entrance was blocked by flames. 

     As Harry flew into the room, every head turned in shock. He looked almost otherworldly standing there, heaving deep breaths as his shirt and pants smoldered with sparks. Then, without delay, he took three big strides towards where Liam and Louis were, bent down and scooped both of the young girls up, turned around, and left.   


     The two kids were shaking, still screaming as loud as they could in between harsh sobs, as Harry raced back to the entrance. He desperately tried to use his body to shield them from the heat, darting around and over fallen pieces of wood and rows of flames. The front door came into view, and he lept through the entrance before depositing them a ways from the burning house.    
  
     "Roll around on the ground," He snapped quickly. His voice was hoarse from the smoke, and one of the girls flinched away from his curtness, but he was already turning around and heading back in. After one deep breath, he was back inside, in the living room, swinging the unconscious lady over his shoulder.    


     "If you want to live, come with me." he sends the message to the group of men, still standing shell-shocked in the room, before plunging across the fiery battleground. He doesn’t wait to see if they follow, he knows that the fear for life can make anyone do almost anything. Harry can't really understand or feel what is going on; he is numb and driven. Before he knows it, he is back outside, heaving deep breaths of the fresh air. The young woman is completely still as Harry gently lays her down. The man from before is now standing behind him, and Harry can feel the anxiousness radiating off of him. 

     "Is she, uh..." The man's voice is rough and scratchy, but still tentative, unable to get the words out. Harry ignores him and leans over the woman, letting out a sigh of relief when he sees her chest moving up and down slightly. He runs  his eyes over her, but can only find a few burn marks.

     "I think that she'll be fine. It looks like she passed out from smoke inhalation, but doesn't seem to have any severe burns." Harry murmurs it softly, giving the woman one last glance before turning to the girls.

     Harry has had quite a lot of experience with treating wounds, specifically his own, and this is the first time he’s ever thanked his father for giving him the experiences. It was almost ironic, but Harry would gladly go through it again, if it meant that he could save their lives. A quick check on the two girls confirms that neither is extremely injured, although both seem to be in shock.

     He’s just sat down completely, sighing with relief, when he looks up. All three of the younger boys are currently staring at him in shock, frozen. They’re like statues, pieces of ice that didn’t melt during the fire. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s the prince, because he escaped, because he was literally just on fire, or because they think he’s insane. It doesn’t really matter, though-everyone is safe. But-Harry took another look at the man, who seemed emotionless at first, and saw something strange-an empty sadness. 

     Right as he gave him a glance of confusion, the man whispers out-

     “My son.”

     The two words strike deeply in Harry. It feels like an invisible hand has taken hold of his heart, and is crushing it.  _ My son.  _ There’s still another boy in there, stuck in the fiery hell, perhaps dead. Harry lets out a strangled gasp of fury and his shoulder sags with despair. There’s no way that someone could still be in the house, and survive. He hangs his head in defeat, but then an unseeable force forces him up.

     Harry feels like a puppet being played along with unbreakable strings as he stumbles back to the house, yet again. He can hear people calling him, shouting that it’s dangerous, to come back, but he cancels them out. His entire body is about to collapse with fatigue, but all he can think about is the complete and utter despair in which the man said, ‘my son’. The words bounce around in his head, creating an earthquake of chaos.

     Harry is through the completely ruined doorway, trying to find the boy. He knows that the roof is about to collapse on him, but the thought of the poor kid, helpless and close to death or already dead, sparks fury and determination in his gut. He scrambles over burning piles of rubble, his eyes searching for any trace of life. The house is unrepairable and unrecognizable, and it is impossible to differentiate between rooms. Sparks fly, and wave after wave of heat washes over Harry as he pushes his broken body past its limit. The searing pain is starting up, and Harry knows that it will only be a little while before he actually feels it.

     It’s near the back that Harry finds the motionless body. The boy seems to be about fifteen or so, and is half buried under a part of the collapsed roof. The lower body is completely covered, and Harry can see that the damage is severe. The boy is unconscious, either from smoke inhalation, blood loss, or the extreme pain. Harry does not want to know which it is.

     It takes a while for Harry to remove the large, heavy piece of wood from on top of the boy. The entire time, the roof keeps collapsing, but Harry ignores it, focusing on his task. When the boy is able to be moved, Harry gently lifts him up, his eyes avoiding the perhaps fatal injuries. He can feel his own blood and sweat mixing with the boys’ as he carefully makes his way through the mess.

     Somehow, Harry makes it back out. The roof and walls completely collapsed under the force of fire, and Harry thinks that it is like a cheesy action story, where the hero makes it out just in time. Except that he doesn’t really feel that heroic-the boy in his arms may already be dead. Everyone is out front, looking at him as he stumbles towards them, the boy in his arms. As Harry rests him on the floor, he is faintly aware of a salty sting in his eyes. He was crying.

     The next hour seems to just inch by, as Harry desperately tries to save the boy. He’s everywhere at once- stopping the bleeding with his shirt, wiping dirt and ash off his face, trying to close the cuts. But it wasn’t enough.

     The boy’s faint breathing stops altogether, and Harry can feel his own heart trying to stop itself, saying that if this boy can’t live, surely Harry doesn’t deserve to live, either. If a young innocent boy can die under his watch, surely Harry can, too. It’s all a mixture of sadness and pain and anger as he sits back on his heels, closing his eyes in defeat. He can vaguely feel people moving around, soft murmurs and broken sobs, but the world is faded, the colors seeping out. The house burns faintly in the background as everything becomes black and white, monotonous.

     That’s when the first drop of rain comes. It’s just one two three then suddenly there's hundreds, and it’s pouring. Dark rain clouds dot the horizon, the angry black clouds rumbling as it slowly puts out the fire that has caused so much pain and disaster. The cool, refreshing rain stings slightly against Harry’s broken body, and his tears mingle with the drops. It’s as though the sky has felt his sadness and started crying, bright flashes of lightning and thunder signifying its pain.

     Harry slowly moves forward to scoop the lifeless body up in his arms, pressing him against his chest, and imagines the poor boy’s soul rising up in the storm, drifting through the wind-far away from all of the pain, the hate, the misery, the heat of fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	3. Tell Me What It Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You killed my son.” The words are coated with venom, and it’s directed straight at Harry. The wounds that he carries in his heart are ripped wide open at the words, and it’s all that he can do to stop his knees from buckling, from collapsing from the sheer exhaustion of living. The weight of the world was heavy, and Harry alone bore the responsibility of holding it up. The boy’s lifeless face flashes in front of his eyes, and then he sees the pain in his mother’s eyes. The father’s face is in front of him, his eyes filled with hate, then his own fathers, before it fades out into Gemma’s. The faces and memories keep coming, one after the other, visions of all of the people that he’s met, all of the lives that he’s ruined.

     They buried the boy a ways from the charred, empty shell of a house. The rain was still going strong, drenching them to the core as they dug through the soft mud, their bare hands scooping handfuls of the slimy dirt. They worked in silence, tears and sweat mingling with the rain, opening the pit where the young boy would lay forever.

      During that time, Harry was not the Prince, and the boys and family were not rebels nor the poor; they were all just humans, struggling in a world of pain and sorrow. They worked side by side, shoulders brushing, fingers touching, hearts connecting. Harry was numb inside, but he had never felt more alive than in that moment, basking in the companionship that the boy's death brought.

     Eventually, they finished, and the earth swallowed up the still body. They found a rock, white and smooth, to carve a headstone. 

_      Tyler Marcus Cameron, age fourteen.  _

     For some reason, having a name to put with the face of the dead gave Harry a feeling of being doused in ice cold water-the boy was now an actual person, a once live, breathing being. Now, he wasn't the epitome of the sadness and regret that flooded through Harry, he was simply another casualty in the battle against life. No longer was he the symbol of a younger, more vulnerable Harry, he was just a dead body of an unfortunate accident. The name of the boy gave him a more human feel, instead of the representation of an angel or god. He was a son, brother, friend, a person.

     They stood in silence, rain thundering around them. It filled every crevice of their small world, dripping off of chins and fingertips, and shocking them back into reality. They turned around, backs facing the tomb of the boy, and back to the body of the unconscious mother. It was a silent decision for everyone to load into the carriage, Harry lifting the body and placing her near the back. There was no supply of blankets or cloths, so everyone huddled on the ground, miserable and wet. The rain pattered against the wooden roof, and it reminded Harry of a clean slate: it washed away the ash, soot, and dust, but it also wiped away all of Harry's naive thoughts of the world. No longer was he an inexperienced teen by himself, against the world. He felt years older, understanding life, after helplessly seeing one torn away.

     No words were spoken, as the heavy weight of exhaustion settled over them in a thick, suffocating cloud.

     The carriage jolted forward, every board creaking and moaning, as though it could feel the despair of its passengers. Harry curled up in the corner, slightly shivering, dark green eyes narrowed slightly. The adrenaline had kept him running, but now that it was fading, the pain had come. He knew that he was covered in bruises, scratches, and burns, and his lungs were tight, making each rattling wheeze painful. He'd deal with that later. Right now, all that he could think of was the internal war raging inside of him.

     No one had batted an eyelid at the prince, who had technically escaped his bonds, and could easily jump out and leave. Instead, they sat in companionable silence as the carriage drew forward. There seemed to be no reaction at his freeness, but then again, everyone was in shock. Harry’s freedom was probably one of the last things on their minds. The fire had shaken the entire group, both mentally and physically, and as exhaustion set in, no one tried to tie him back up, or even look at him. The space that he had once occupied alone now held the mother and two children, while the father and three boys were up front. Harry had a feeling that the family thought that he was with the rebels, rather than a prisoner.

      They carried on in silence, and Harry could hear soft murmurs coming from the front. He guessed that they were either figuring out what had happened and who they were, or making plans as of what to do now. The mother still lay unconscious, and the two girls huddled together for warmth and comfort, located across the room. They looked pitiful, still dripping wet, tears pricking their eyes as they stared at their mother. Harry made a movement towards them, but then hesitated. He wasn't used to people overall, much less children in trauma. If Gemma was here, she'd know what to do. She'd be able to comfort them, instead of just watching and doing nothing. With that thought, Harry dragged himself towards them. He could put on faux braveness and comfort them, at least for now. They needed it more than he did.

     Harry's movement was noticed by one of them, and she darted her eyes up, confusion flickering over the clouded fear. Harry licked his dried lips and pulled himself further towards them. He was in the middle of the room when they both noticed them. He could still see the aftereffects of shock lingering, but they did recognize him as the guy that saved them. Neither seemed scared, and Harry took that as a sign to move closer. Once he was a foot away, all he had to do was slightly open his arms in the universal sign for a hug, before both of the girls, one after the other, shot into his arms.

      The waterworks started, as each girl on either side of him, folded into his arms. The trust that they held for a stranger that they’d never met astounded Harry. He was used to being suspicious of everyone, constantly looking over his shoulder, but these two girls were wholeheartedly hugging him. Harry tried to comfort them, rubbing their backs and cooing softly. They had both seen their brother die in front of their eyes, and they might be thinking that their mother was, too.

      "She'll be fine," Harry heard himself say. "It's just smoke inhalation. She should wake up soon." The girls continued to cry, and Harry was at a loss as of what to do. Then, he remembered that Gemma always sang when he was scared. In a soft voice, he began a short lullaby, repeating the warm melody over and over until their small shoulders stopped heaving with tears, and their eyes closed into a peaceful rest. Harry could feel himself slipping into sleep, and forced his body to relax, pulling the two girls closer to him. That's where they found him, the crown prince, with his arms wrapped around the kids as though to protect them.

* * *

  
**"C'mon, Harry!"** _ Gemma stood there, smiling, looking absolutely ethereal  in the bright sunlight. She was about seven, brown eyes shining mischievously. Harry giggled as he ran after her, beaming with happiness. It was one of the rare times that the King had let them out, and they were not taking it for granted. The Queen was bedridden, and the two children had swooped on the chance to escape the room filled with sickness and tainted with death. They skipped around, basking in the fresh air and, temporarily, forgetting the burdens and worries and responsibilities. _

**"C'mon, Harry."** _ Gemma's voice is now filled with raw pain, the eight year old's voice breaking as she takes his hand and pulls him to the door. Harry stumbles after her, giving the dead, motionless body of his mother one last glance before stepping out of the room. He saw his father sitting near the bed, his face covered in both hands, and felt cold fear run through his body. The Queen was the only thing keeping his father grounded, and now that she was gone, he didn't know how he would keep his sanity, or who would stop him from going completely insane. Not his children, certainly. A dark cloud of chaos formed above the King, swirling with anger. He tore his eyes away, escaping the stifling room, and treaded slowly beside his sister, their heads lowered with sadness as they continued down the hallway. _

**"C'mon, Harry!"** _ Her voice is laced with anger and a bit of surprise as she calls out to him. Harry stands there in shock, the echo of his father's hand hitting his face ringing in his ears. His cheek stings sharply, and later, when he looked in the mirror, an angry purplish bruise would form over the red imprint. Harry stumbles backwards, staring in terror at his father's dark, furious face, before turning and sprinting towards his nine year old sister. That day, everything changed, and Harry had clung to his sister, sobs wracking his shoulders as she promised to protect him. _

**"C'mon, Harry!"** _ This time, Gemma looks too old, too mature for an ten year old. He sprints after her, gasping for breath as his body screams in pain. Her long hair flows behind her as she slows down slightly, just enough to grab his hand, before they speed up, running down the hallway with fingers intertwined. They can hear the King stumbling and crashing behind them in his drunken rage, roaring out curse words, but they know that as long as they're together, everything will be alright. _

**"C'mon, Harry!"** _ Harry blinks blood out of his eyes, staggering to his feet as Gemma helps him up. He's almost as tall as the eleven year old, he realizes, swinging his arms around her slender shoulders. She's still the strong-willed, brave girl, but Harry still thanks the world every day, that his father does not lay a hand on his sister. Although the King has no problem in beating him bloody, Gemma looked too much like their mother, and the Queen was the one person that their father would never touch. He can take the pain himself, but if anything happened to Gemma, Harry would break. Their steps are urgent as they hurry back to the safety of their room, locking it behind him. Gemma is immediately all over him, wiping the blood with precision that comes only with practice. Harry smiles up at her dumbly, glad to have the mutual support. _

**"C'mon, Harry please,"** _ Harry can barely hear her voice as he drifts in and out of consciousness. His body screams with echoes of pain but no longer feels it, but he still slightly notices his twelve year old sister drag him up, starting the long journey to their safe place. He's numb, the agony of the burns long gone. Then they're in their room, and Gemma is staring in horror at his bright red, burned body. It's right then, while Harry is lying on the ratty old mattress, that he sees Gemma cry for the first time since their mother died. _

**"C'mon, Harry. It's okay."** _ He imagines Gemma’s voice floating down to him, washing over his bruised and broken body, and Harry lies there, blinking back the rising tears. He never was good at not crying, not like Gemma. His father is already gone, leaving Harry to wallow in his torment and sorrow. Today is Gemma's thirteenth birthday, and it's been over half a year since she left him. He still sees traces of her, and almost everything throws him back into his memories. The pain of abandonment lingers, and Harry swears that he hears her voice.  _ **"C'mon, Harry, get up. You're alright. We're alright."**

* * *

****      Harry’s dreams are the same as always-he reminisces the way that Gemma always looked so effortlessly brave, the way that the tips of her lips quirk upwards when she smiles, the way her eyes shine with love when she looked at him. He desperately clings onto every memory that he has of her, all of the little things that made her so  _ Gemma. _ The times that his dreams aren’t disturbed by nightmares are one of the few things that he enjoys in life-waking up with a smile the best feelings in the world.

     These are one of the few times that he does. The two girls are warm on top of him, the rain having stopped, and the cabin completely dry. Harry lets out a sigh of content, the memories of Gemma slowly fading and clearing his mind. He knows that he should probably be still in shock, but right now, he was completely desensitized. The real pain would probably come later, so for now, he would enjoy the emptiness.

     He estimates that it’s probably early morning. He must have slept the entire night. He stares out the window as the carriage continues on, and drowses, his eyes half closed. It’s probably an hour later that he senses motion from the corner of his eye. His head shoots up and sees the woman starting to stir. Carefully extracting himself from the two girls, who mumble in protest, and stretches up. It’s once he steps out of the door to alert everyone that it gets awkward. They’re all awake, sitting close together and chatting when he is noticed. Everyone but the man tenses up slightly, and Harry clears his throat uncomfortably.

     “Uh, she’s almost awake.”

     The few words has the man shooting up out of his seat immediately and rushing past him. He smiles inwardly at the act of love and devotion and wonders if his parents were ever like that. Considering his father right now, he guesses not. The other boys wait for him to re-enter the cabin before following him, still cautious. 

     The woman is now blinking dazedly, looking up in confusion. It takes her a second to remember what happens, and she’s immediately trying to sit up, a flash of panic crossing her face. Her husband effectively calms her down, and the two girls wake up from the commotion, pouncing on their mother, full of smiles and giggles. Harry stands back awkwardly along with the other boys, not wanting to ruin the moment. 

     It’s destroyed, anyways, as the woman slowly realizes that her son is missing. Harry can’t stand to watch as her face falls in defeat and the tears fall. He turns around and cautiously gets the attention of Liam, who is nearest to him.

     “Water.”

     The one word makes Liam immediately spring to attention and run out of the room, relieved to be away from all of the depressive feelings. He returns, and as he tries to hand the man the canteen, the woman notices the four boys in the room. The puzzlement begins again, and she listens attentively as her husband explains what happened, her lip trembling as he describes their son’s death. Her two daughters, perched on her lap, seem to soak in her melancholy, and she tugs them closer to her chest. The man gestures towards Harry, and she looks at him with soulful eyes, thanking him silently. The man pauses his story to look up at him and clear his throat before saying, 

     “I just wanted to say thank you for everything you’ve done for my family,” He says, before flickering his gaze to the others, “all four of you.” It’s suddenly uncomfortable, and Harry looks down at his scarred, bare feet, unused to the attention and gratefulness.

     Then, the man turns his attention back to his family.

     “These guys are part of the rebellion,” He continues, “and I’ve decided to join. They have a place for you guys to stay. A safe place.” He emphasizes the idea of security, and the woman’s eyes well up with tears.

     “Thank you,” she whispers. Her voice is rough and smoky, but filled with relief. Harry is now left out, helpless, as he realizes that they think that he’s part of it. It’s ironic, since he’s the exact opposite of that. The tension between him and the other three boys, who know who he is, is extremely thick. It’s that moment, that Louis turns to look at him, and Harry knows what he’s going to say before it even leaves his mouth.

     “About that…” His voice is tentative and unsure. “I have to…” the words are stuttered slightly. “Just a precaution, can’t be too careful…” It’s almost as though he’s defending himself, and Harry nods with defeat. He knows that there is no other choice, and he’s surprised that it’s taken them this long, and that they’re asking instead of just doing.

     The man is now the confused one, looking at them with a puzzled expression. Louis had left and now returned with more rope. Harry dutifully turns around, and Louis ties them, looser this time, but just enough to constantly remind him that he’s different. The easiness from before has disappeared. In its place, there’s an invisible wall separating Harry from the rest of them-he might as well have carved the words “monarch” into his forehead.

     The man is completely baffled, almost shocked, as he turns his head back and forth between Harry and the boys, speechless.

     “What’s-why-I don’t understand-” He scrambles to find the right words to say, and even the two young girls can understand that something’s wrong. As Liam opens his mouth to explain, Harry squeezes his eyes shut tightly, knowing that his secret would soon be out.

     “He isn’t part of the rebel movement,” He sounds almost apologetic. “He’s actually, uhm,” The man is staring at him, still uncomprehending, “the prince.”

     The silence is deafening. It covers them, thick with shock and confusion, and Harry is suffocating in it. That’s when the first punch hits him. It’s actually not that hard, but Harry still stumbles back, hitting the wall. He tenses, preparing for more, but none come. When he cracks his eyes open, the man is right in front of him, eyes dark with raw fury. It’s so different from the soft look he had gotten earlier.

     “You-” The man snarls out, and then pauses, closing his eyes. The anger has his shoulders rigid, his entire body stiff and shaking. The control that he has is impeccable. 

     “You-you bastard!” The words are spit out with venom, and Harry winces slightly.

     “You killed my son.” The man’s voice is now completely stone, and it’s stated as a fact. The words hit deep in him.  _ I did, didn’t I? I couldn’t save him.  _ But the man continues,

     “The Royal guards did it.” Harry frowns, slightly confused. 

     “They started the fire. They came and when we refused to pay money-” The man’s voice cracks, and Harry’s world comes crashing down.

     He let’s out a pained whimper and slides down the wall until he’s crouched in the fetal position. The world spins around him, and he has a sharp headache.

     “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you, it just happened, I know that it’s your father not you-it’s just-my anger got to me, I’m sorry-” The man is blabbering, but Harry just shakes his head, stopping him. In his head, he’s going through every single nameless guard he’s ever met or seen, wondering who had started it. Was it the one guy that had always smiled at him encouragingly in the hallway? The one that constantly hung out in the kitchen, bothering and teasing the cook? Was it one of the men out of hundreds that Harry had watched, marching and drilling? Who would be so heartless as to kill an innocent boy? Harry feels sick as he sits there, barely breathing.

     There are movements, and Harry can faintly see the woman and girls being ushered to the front, and the man and boys following, until the door is closed and Harry is alone. Again.

     Harry huddles against the wall, imagining what the young boy was like. Was he full of potential, brightness, positive energy? Did he have friends, a future wife, his own children? What would he have been like, if he hadn’t had his life torn from him.

     Harry sits there in desolation, pathetically imagining his father ordering guards to go and raid the family, to start a fire and cause destruction, to kill the boy. The guards probably did this all the time, going out and ruining the lives of everyone. It was no wonder that people were rebelling. The monarchy was one of the most evil, hateful things. The ruler, the King, his father, was a corrupt demon.

     He was the son of a monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	4. And I'll Go So High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The father’s absolute agony-filled eyes were staring at him, the furious emotion shaking Harry to the bones. He’d seen that look on his own father’s face quite often, and both of the men’s anger came because of what Harry did. He messed up everything that he touched, and Harry was just so sick with destroying the lives of innocents, ruining futures and dreams, putting that intense fury in his father’s eyes. No matter what how hard Harry tried, he did something wrong.  
> If he was gone, then maybe everyone around him would be happier.

     It takes Harry quite a while to completely calm down. Even then, his mind is still racing, and all that he can see is the boy’s face. The fourteen year old who was brutally murdered by the Royal Guards.  _ His  _ royal guards. In a sense, he had killed the boy. The idea makes him sick inside, and he wants to melt into the wood, or better yet, switch with the boy. He should’ve died in that fire, in the fire that he caused, instead of the boy. The family could still have him-his sister’s wouldn’t have to live without their older brother, their parents wouldn’t feel the agony of losing their only son. The rebellion would have one less monarch to fight, and Harry wouldn’t have to deal with everything he’s caused. It was a win-win for everyone.

     The entire family was absolutely devastated at their son’s death, and everything that the fire destroyed. Their house was gone, completely collapsed, along with everything inside of it. Perhaps there were important valuables in the house, or generations-old heirlooms? Were there objects that held memories and emotions in the house? He couldn’t imagine losing the one thing that was the most important thing to him-unconsciously, he checked for the weight against his chest. His necklace, the one that Gemma had given him when she left, was still there. It was a simple necklace, a thin metal string with the letters G+H carved into a small metal plate. He hadn’t taken it off since Gemma left him, and luckily, it hadn’t came off during the kidnapping or fire. The thought of losing it tore through his heart.

     But the family had-perhaps they had lost treasured items. They’d already lost the most important thing, their son’s life, but there must have been other memories that burned to ashes. The pain of death was raw, and it filled every corner of the carriage. Harry can still see the pure, unaltered anger on the father’s face. It was shockingly similar to the look that usually decorated his own father’s face. They were almost identical, but the only difference was that the man’s fury came from the pain of  _ losing _ his son, while his own father’s was from  _ having  _ Harry. The reasons were completely opposite, but Harry couldn’t help but wish that the deep emotion on his father’s face was out of love, not hate.

     But that was impossible-the loathing from his father wasn’t a light emotion-it was always there, as a seed, but it bloomed under the circumstances. The death of the Queen and the abandonment of Gemma had carefully nurtured the seedling into a full tree, with roots extending deep, too deep to even hope of uprooting it. His father detested him.

     The thought burned through him like a wildfire, leaving behind absolute devastation. Harry had never really thought about it, but now that he did, it was obvious.  _ His father hated him.  _ Harry didn’t know whether he had one big reason, but he figured that he was easy to hate-overall, Harry was a complete failure, as a son, brother, and a human being. He wasn’t able to save his mother from dying of illness, he wasn’t able to stop his sister from leaving, he wasn’t able to keep the boy from dying. He couldn’t even act like a proper King for his father. There was not even one person who wanted him-the common people hated him for being a monarch, Gemma hated him because he wasn’t strong enough to protect them, his father hated him because he was a pathetic excuse for a human being, much less the ruler of England.

     The familiar burning feeling of tears rises, but Harry blinks them away.  _ Stop crying,  _ Harry thinks angrily.  _ It’s pathetic. Stop being pathetic. Maybe if you weren’t, someone would actually like you.  _ He glares stormily at empty space, wishing that he could’ve been better, wishing that his life was different, wishing that his father actually loved him. 

     He imagined the perfect family-they weren’t the rulers, just a normal family in happy circumstances. His mother was alive, his sister hadn’t left, and his father would never dream of hurting him. They would all be cheerful and bright, and spend their entire lives in joy. Perhaps if he had real parents, none of this would’ve happened.

     But Harry immediately dismissed the thought-it wasn’t his parent’s fault, it was his. His father had reminded him enough times-if he was a proper King, he wouldn’t have to be punished. But he wasn’t, and so the blows kept coming.  _ Do better next time,  _ his father would scold him,  _ then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.  _ Harry should stop being selfish.

     His selfishness was the reason everyone left. If he wasn’t so self-centered, then maybe he would’ve noticed his mother’s illness, and done something. When she died, he always imagined her as an angel, watching over them, proud and in a better place. But why should she? He hoped that she was still with Gemma, but she definitely wouldn’t want to see Harry. Who would, anyways-she would probably be embarrassed and mad at him, wishing that he wasn’t her son.  _ He  _ was why Gemma escaped-he couldn’t keep her from seeing what his father did, from his own evil. She probably sympathized with his father, who had to put up with Harry’s uselessness, and eventually left because she couldn’t stand being with him anymore.

     She had left to escape Harry.

* * *

_      His father had left over an hour ago, but Harry couldn’t find the energy to move. As blood pooled around him from the deep cut in his stomach, he lay there, waiting for Gemma to come find him, to help him. It was the first time that his father had touched him since the burning furnace incident-almost a whole month. It was the longest time ever, in his entire life, for his father to leave him alone. The pain felt almost unnatural and alien, especially after so long, and Harry gritted his teeth at it. _

_      He was surprised that Gemma had not found him yet, she usually kept a close eye on him. He hoped that Gemma found him soon, because it was excruciating, and he was worried about blood loss. Usually his father wouldn’t make such a bold move as a deep cut, usually staying to more shallow pain across his entire body, carving designs with his knife that would scar, or hundreds of little cuts, things that would not kill Harry, but still make him understand what he had done wrong. _

_      But this time, all that Harry had done to get punished was exist-his father was completely drunk. He’d actually just bumped into the King in the hallways, unusually confident after an entire month of nothing, and the knife had flashed out, taking him by surprise, before he could do anything. The King had fled immediately, taking his fancy alcohol glass and the stench of strong, stinging liquor. _

_      So Harry lay there, until he eventually gave up on Gemma’s arrival, managing to stagger to his feet. He’s extremely confused-Gemma had never waited this long to come and find him. Dark spots litter his vision as he concentrates on putting one foot in front of another.  _

_      It feels like an eternity before he makes it back upstairs to their safe rooms. It takes him a while to wipe the blood and stitch it up-he’s not used to doing it alone. Although he knows how to do it, Gemma was always there, comforting him, encouraging him. Alone, it’s strange, and he feels like the empty room holds ghosts. The stitches are finished, rough and uneven but still effective, and Harry can’t shake of the feeling that something is wrong-extremely wrong. _

     His father hurt her.

_      The thought is so sudden and painful that Harry almost tips over. He had never hurt Gemma, but there was a high chance-when he was drunk, his mind wasn’t right, and if Gemma was unexpecting, he could easily have attacked her with the exact same blood-stained knife, and left her for dead… _

_      Harry is immediately on his feet, the adrenaline from fear spurring him on. He’s almost out the door when he notices the paper. It was sitting innocently on the corner of the desk, and it wasn’t there earlier. Harry frowns, confused, and walks over and picks it up, skimming over it.  _

     Harry, I’m sorry. I couldn’t stay any longer. I had to leave. I hope we meet again. -Gemma. I love you.

_      The paper drops from his shaking fingers as though it burned him, floating down gently to rest on the floor. Harry lets out a strangled moan, stumbling away from it, tripping and landing heavily. Everything suddenly made sense. She was gone, and he was all alone. _

* * *

     Harry wakes up with two warm bodies pressed against him. His mind is foggy from the nightmare, and he is confused. He’s empty and hollow, filled with only the dark feeling of self-loathing. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he looks down to see the girls in the same position as before, curled up on either side of him.

     He’s even more puzzled, as everything rushes back at him in one big wave. Why were they here, so close to him, even though they  _ knew  _ that he was the prince? And why would their father let them come remotely close to him? He was dangerous, evil, an abomination.  _ Get away from me,  _ he thought in panic,  _ stay away before I ruin you guys, too.  _ They were still innocent, untainted, and Harry wanted the to stay that way.

     He squirms slightly, trying to wriggle his way out of the pile of girls, but his movements cause them to wake up. They both yawn consecutively, and then blink up at him with sleepy eyes. Then, two soft, warm smiles radiate up to greet him. Harry’s heart melts at the scene in front of him-bright brown eyes, button noses, soft baby lips. Then he stiffens his heart and looks away, increasing his efforts to escape.  _ Look at them, Harry. Look at them.  _ His mind has a voice of its own, and is reads Harry’s thoughts and feelings.  _ Do you really want to be the one that destroys their lives?  _ Harry lets out a choked sob and flinches away as one of the girl’s small hands reaches out to touch him.

     But it's useless, and they are still glued to his side. He’s trembling, shaking with panic, but neither girl lets go. Then one of them starts petting his curls and cooing in his ears. It’s actually kind of nice, and Harry eventually sinks back down, relaxing.  _ Just this once. You can enjoy it once.  _ It’s almost ironic, the fact that two ten-year-old girls are comforting him, but he is so touch-starved that every little word of kindness helps glue the cracks back together. He feels like a porcelain doll, shattered into hundreds of little shards.

     It was quite calming, with the two girls providing silent support. It reminds Harry of Gemma, when they would lay together at night, in the dark, imagining a world without their father. Gemma was one hundred percent sure that everything was their father’s fault, not Harry’s. She knew that the King was constantly telling Harry different, and always made sure to cancel out every negative thing with five positives. She was the glue that held Harry together, but glue can’t permanently fix cracks, and once she left, all of the glue melted, and he was just a pile of glass.

     Harry can’t help but smile with content at the two young girls.  _ Just this once,  _ his mind reminds him again. It gives Harry an almost sense of home-the warmth of the embrace, the idea that he’s actually loved. Even if he’s not. It’s almost as if the two girls can read his emotions, because as soon as he starts to feel content and relaxed, they loosen their grip and sit back, melting him with their warm chocolate eyes. Harry manages a weak smile. They both were so knowledgeable and mature for their ages. But the little bubble they had created comes down as soon as Harry opens his mouth.

     “Why are you here? You probably shouldn’t be near me.” He blurts it out without thinking, and immediately winced inwardly, but neither of them looks upset.

     “You saved our lives,” The girl on the left states matter-of-factly. It’s the first time that Harry has actually heard either of their voices, and it’s a big difference between the pained screaming from earlier. It’s quite loud and confident, and as soon as Harry opens his mouth to object, she gives him a grim look, which makes him immediately snap his jaw shut. 

     “And you saved Mum and Dad,” The other girl pipes up. She’s identical to the other girl, both with looks, voice, and the same fierce look on her face. Harry frowns with protest, but doesn’t say anything this time. 

     “And-” The girl’s voice breaks, and her wall of confidence wavers for a second, before she toughens up and murmurs,

     “You tried to save Tyler.” Her voice is stiff and unrecognizable, but then she gives him a half-smile that he doesn’t return. Harry’s mouth is set in a grim line.  _ No, I didn’t! He died because of me. He died because I couldn't save him. What kind of king am I?  _ His mind is screaming at him, yelling every curse it could think of, throwing words around until they bounced around off the walls. Inside, he was in complete and utter turmoil, but outside, he was impassive and expressionless, his jaw clenched.

     But instead of showing his emotions he gave a slight nod and looked down, shame burning through his body. These two girls had lost their brother because of him. 

     “-We don’t even know each other's names,”

     The girl’s voice breaks his train of thought. He looks up, startled.

     “I’m Lynnette,” The girl on the right grinned at him, her sadness forgotten.

     “And I’m Leanne,” The other girl beams, too, and Harry can’t help but smile back,their enthusiasm catching on.

     “Harry, Harry Styles,” Harry replies back, and then cringes. He sounds so formal in the relaxed environment, and who wouldn’t know his surname? But before he can think over his stupidity, Lynnette nods solemnly.

     “Hello, Harry Styles.”

     “Hello, Lynnette, Leanne Cameron.” He nods back at them, and their smiles widen.

     “So, Harry Styles, let’s learn more about you.” Both girls look up at him expectantly, and he takes a deep breath before saying,

     “Well, I’m sixteen years old.” Both girls look at him, incredulous. Harry can feel his cheeks burning, but he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if this is some sort of game, but he waits patiently for them to explain it.

     “That’s lame,” Leanne announces. “We already know that. You have to say something important.” She has an air or pride and nobility around her as she puffs her chest out and thrusts her chin up.  _ She’d be a good queen, _ he thinks, but immediately dismisses the idea. She deserved more than that. She deserved a happy life, one without responsibilities or worries.

     “It’s got to be interesting. I’ll start.” Lynnette interjects. “Leanne is my best friend.” She smirks at her twin sister, and Leanne nods with agreement. “Same.” Harry feels at a loss, but racks his brain for a good answer.

     “My best friend is, uhm,” Harry stutters.

     “Oh, come on, there’s gotta be someone,” Lynnette huffs. Harry gives her a wry smile, playing along with her game, and decides,

     “Zayn.” The words leave his mouth, and he immediately regrets them as painful memories rush back-memories that he had kept locked away, to a dark place in his mind where he wouldn’t remember them.

* * *

_      The first time he saw Zayn Malik, he was five. His mum was getting sicker as the days go by, and Gemma was losing the light in her eyes. The two most important people were slipping out of his fingers right in front of him, and he was at a loss as of what to do. His father was being more vicious, and stricter when it came to his studies. No matter what he did, it wasn’t good enough for him. _

_      Zayn was up in the biggest ash tree in the courtyard. It towered over the rest, and Harry absolutely loved it. It was  _ his _ tree, and one of the only places he could go to escape reality. His father had been especially awful, his mother’s eyes were glazed and she didn’t recognize him, and Gemma was stressed and upset. With tears pricking his eyes, he carefully scaled the tree, scrambling up to one of the higher branches, getting ready for a good surprise. _

_      But to his surprise, there already was another boy there. He was curled up, hugging his knees, sobbing softly. Harry’s own worries were diminished immediately as he scooted closer. The other boy lifted his head, noticing him, but didn’t move. Instead, he raised his hand slightly, showing an awful, black burn stretching across his palm. His dark brown eyes glistened with tears, and Harry felt a sharp pang in his chest. Before he could open his mouth to ask why, the other boy replied with a raspy voice, _

_      “My father.”  _

_      It fell silent after that, as Harry swung an arm around him, and they sat together companionably. An invisible bond was formed right then, and they whispered secrets to each other, voicing their worries and fears, both having a deeper connection and understanding. Before they knew it, the sun was setting, and Harry turned to leave. Before he could jump off, the other boy had reached out and softly grazed his palm against his shoulder. _

_      “Zayn Malik.” _

_      “Harry Styles.”  _

_      Zayn made no acknowledgement over the fact that Harry was the prince, and that started a slow smile that spread across his cheeks. He was so sick of people treating him differently. They were still all human, and yet everyone thought that he was better, even though he wasn’t.  _

_      “Tomorrow?”  _

_      Zayn’s voice is slightly hesitant, but Harry immediately nods in agreement. They shake hands, sealing the promise, Harry’s small hand fitting in Zayn’s, who was already two years older. They smiled at each other before bidding goodbye and preparing themselves for reality. _

_      Harry snuck out the next day, and the next, and the next, until he had a steady pattern of meeting after dinner everyday. They drew closer and closer, and Harry introduced Zayn to Gemma. The three were soon thick as thieves, but Harry and Zayn always had a special bond. Zayn was there when Harry’s mum died, and Harry was there when all three of Zayn’s sisters disappeared, only for their bodies to turn up a month later, mysteriously dead. _

_      It was HarryandZayn against the world. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	5. My Feet Won't Touch The Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both girls are grinning at him, showing off their teeth and sparkly white eyes. Harry can’t help but return a lopsided one, making a silly face. He’s then throwing his own head back to laugh along with the little giggles, his cheeks burning from smiling for so long. He’s happier than he’s been for a long, long time, and he enjoys the burning feeling of joy start in his gut, slowly inching its way throughout his entire body. As he sits there, just talking with the two girls, he feels absolutely radiant.  
> Harry can feel himself shine. He’s burning brighter than the sun, glowing with heat, and basks in the rays of light he gives off. They deflect of the wooden walls, lighting up the entire room, casting shadows. He’s a star, distant but still so close, a dream catcher, wisher, maker. Then he sees the silhouette of the man, leaning against the door frame. The light inside of him burns out, and the room is left in a cloud of darkness.

     Harry shoves the memories far from his current mind, into the deep recesses of his brain, where they could fester with hate and pain, away from his emotions, secluded. He turns back to the two girls, who are now looking at him questioningly, and murmurs,

     “He was-” The past tense word catches in his throat, “the Captain of the Guard’s son.”

     Almost immediately, the two girls’ eyes widen with shock and awe, and he’s pelted with question after question.

     “That’s so cool!”

     “Did he fight well?”

     “Can he do cool knife tricks?”

     “Was he the best fighter?”

     Harry smiles slightly at the last question, replying-

     “Second best, actually.” He pauses for dramatic effect, sweeping his eyes across the two girls sitting in front of him, a regal smile on his face. He lifts his chin up, feeling a wave of affection for them, and states,

     “I was first.”

     Almost immediately, he’s bombarded with more question, and he just leans back slightly, pretending to be pushed by something imaginary.

     “Any more questions and I’ll be buried by the amount,” He exclaims, and flashes them a goofy grin. They both laugh back, obviously enjoying his more relaxed, stress-free side. He can’t stop the slight giggle that escapes his lips as one of the girls makes a silly face. He returns the offer, and soon they’re all laughing for no reason. Harry can’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard, and his cheeks hurt from smiling.

     “Alright, we’ve got to finish the interview,” Lynnette states solemnly after they’ve calmed down, all business.

     “Favorite color?”

     “Uh…” Harry hesitates for a second. He’s never been asked this sort of personal question. “Blue?” He says, unsure.

     “Are you asking or telling?” Leanne interrupts, raising an eyebrow.

     “No, orange.” Harry ignores her and continues his musings. “Yeah, I like orange.”

     “Ew, that’s an ugly color,” Leanne frowns. Harry just shakes his head and explains.

     “I’m talking about the pretty one. The kind in a sunset, ya know? It’s bright and vibrant and warm. I like that one.”

     They both nod with agreement, although Leanne still has a slightly disagreeable look on her face. The game continues, and Harry answers them as best as he can.

     “Eye color?”

     “Whose, mine?”

     “No, your dad. Of course you, silly!”

     Harry flinches slightly at the mention of his father, but neither of them notice.

     “Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s green. I think. Actually, I’m not quite sure.”

     Lynette leans in, staring intently at his eyes. 

     “Yep, they’re green. You have really pretty eyes.” She states it matter-of-factly, and Harry blushes slightly.

     “Uhm, thanks, I guess?”

     Leanne immediately interjects-”What have I told you about asking and answering?”

     Harry laughs slightly, before saying,

     “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, it will not happen again.” He tries to bow, scrunching his stomach to lean forward, but his words immediately cause both Leanne and Lynette to jump up. Almost immediately, he looks up, worry creasing his forehead, but they’ve got identical smiles.

     “Let’s play princess!” It’s exclaimed with such enthusiasm that Harry can’t disagree. He has no idea what it means, but he still lets himself be pushed into a sitting position. Lynette has suddenly disappeared, but as Harry opens his mouth to ask why, she’s back, holding a slightly large knife in her hands. He watches her wearily, eyeing the large weapon.

     “I’m not sure you should be using that-” he tries, but Lynette interjects him bossily.

     “Turn around and get on your knees,” she commands, and Harry does, still confused at the strange request.

     “Is this, like, part of the game?” he asks, but then he feels the blade rest gently on his wrists, and he understands, changing his question.

     “I don’t think you should do that-”

     “-Be quiet and hold still.” 

     Harry remains motionless as the ropes are cut from around his hands, allowing him movement. He lets out a sigh of relief as he pops his shoulders forward, stretching his unused arms. He turns around and leans, resting on the back of his heels, to look up at the two standing girls.

     “You really shouldn’t have-” He begins, but is cut off immediately.

     “Why should you be tied up? That’s unreasonable.”

     “I’m the prince,” Harry tries to reason with them. “I’m dangerous.”

     “Nonsense!” Lynette snorts, scooting closer to him and tugging gently on one of his curls.

     “Look at you, you’re harmless!” As though to prove her point, she pokes the side of his cheek until a dimple pops up. 

     “You couldn’t hurt a fly.”

     “Actually…” Harry trails off as both girls cover their ears with their hands, shouting  _ na na na I can’t hear you _ until he gave up.

     “Besides, we need you to play princesses with us.”

     And that’s how Harry found himself on his hands and knees, pretending to be a horse with a giggling girl on his back. He stumbled around before rolling over and tossing Leanne gently in the air before catching her. She shrieked with surprise before laughing delightedly.

     Harry stomped around, pretending to be a monster, swung them around in circles, chased them and twirled them around, dancing and singing on the top of his lungs. It was the happiest he’d been in a long time, and he felt a surge of true joy as he played with them. Their antics were foreign and unfamiliar, but still welcome at the same time. He laughed and smiled and danced and absolutely  _ radiated  _ with delight.

     He didn’t think that it would be so easy and comfortable to interact with them-he’d thought that after years of seclusion, he would be antisocial and come off as dangerous or unfriendly, but as he is interacting with the two girls, he can’t help but enjoy it. They don’t look at him weirdly or anything-they just bask in his attention, and treat him like a normal human being-not a dangerous monarch or the man that killed their brother-they look at him with love and normalcy and acceptance. Harry has not felt this way since he was nine, when Gemma had left him.

     When they got tired, they flopped down, side by side, panting. It felt so easy, so natural, to sit there and talk to them. He cracked jokes, made up animated stories, and waved his hands around, trying to put his thought to words. They girls were patient, even when he said something weird on accident or stuttered. Harry felt regular, he felt like he fit in.

     They were casually leaning against the wall, making a secret language with their hands when their father came in. He was trying to make the sign for ‘I promise’ by linking his pinkies together and raising them in the air before his eyes caught the silhouette leaning against the crude door frame.

     Harry immediately jumps from where he was sitting in between the two girls, who were now copying his pinkie fingers, and crossed to the other side, pressing himself against the wall, trying separate himself from them. He didn’t know what the father thought of him-the raw pain was in his eyes, but he had also apologized. Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, to show,  _ somehow,  _ that he was not a danger.

     “I was-we were-I swear I didn’t-” Harry stutters, cursing his nervousness and his shaking fingers. He smooths his palms against his dirty, soiled pants, and swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He didn’t know why he suddenly wanted this man to accept him, but he desperately hoped that he wouldn’t take the two girls away from him-they were two of the only friends he’d ever had.

      “Hi, Dad.” Leanne pipes up, flashing him a smile, before using their new language to sign him. Her tongue stuck out as she concentrated. 

     Wiggling four fingers.  _ Hi.  _

     A quick finger traced around her upper lip, in the shape of a mustache, before resting over her heart.  _ Dad.  _

     A swirly loop on the tip of her hair.  _ Harry. _

     A thumbs up.  _ Good. _

_      Harry good. Harry good. Harry is good. _

     She repeated the pattern over and over grinning widely. Harry felt his cheeks redden-it was nothing, just a thoughtful gesture, but Harry loved it. Before he could think about it, he was signing back.

     He stuck his hands together and fluttered his fingers.  _ Bird. _

     He mimicked talking, then did a slight little skip-dance.  _ Sing. _

     Both girls were looking at him, slightly confused. Their attention was completely on him, their father forgotten. Lynette shrugged her shoulders and cocked her head slightly.  _ Why? _

     Harry just pointed out the barred window, before motioning to his ear.  _ Window. Out. Listen. _

_      Listen. Bird. Sing. Listen, the birds are singing. _

     They both paused and preened their ears. Sure enough, the faint birdsong broke through the air. Leanne gave him a thumbs up, and Harry felt proud to have noticed. Winter was starting to close, and spring was coming. They all-excluding their father, who seemed extremely confused, looking back and forth between Harry and his daughters-took a moment to imagine spring. Then, Harry started signing again.

     A palm over his chest.  _ I. _

     He formed a crude heart with his fingers.  _ Love.  _

     He started to point at both fingers with his hands to show  _ you _ , but pretended to change his mind halfway and pointed at himself. He had about half a second to laugh before he was tackled by two sixty-pound girls. He managed to catch both in each arm before they fell to the floor, to the delight of the girls, and he spun around, laughing.

     “Say you love me!” Leanne demanded, and Lynette chimed in with agreement immediately afterwards. They shifted slightly, climbing up his arms, which were tensed to keep them in the air, and started tugging on his hair and poking his face. They started chanting-

     “Say you love me, say you love me, say you love me!” and Harry pretended to topple over. They climbed on his chest, clamoring for his attention. He eventually gave in, like he always did.

     “Alright, alright, I love both of you. Now get off of me, you great big lumps!” They both scrambled off after he agreed to their command, and he was able to stagger to his feet. He then remembered the father, who had seen the whole exchange, and straightened up, determined to keep a straight face.  _ It’s completely normal for the future king to goof around with his subjects. Don’t be embarrassed.  _ He thought.  _ How do you know? You’ve never seen you father act like that, not even his own children!  _ His conscious immediately negated him, and an internal battle started.  _ Well, I’m not my father--You’re the next king--I might not even be the king! Maybe the rebellion will work!--You’re already sixteen, start acting like it! _ He winced as his subconscious quoted his father, using the phrase he’d heard so often.

     Then he realized that he must look like a fool, standing there for such a long time without doing anything. The father was still looking at him curiously, but he didn’t seem angry or accusing. 

     “Girls, why don’t you go see your mum? She’s starting to feel better.” The father turned to look at the two girls, who were still giggling with each other, their cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Harry smiled without thinking, looking at them, and gave them both elaborate ‘fist bumps’ as they walked by him to leave the room. Then, he was alone with their father. The man now seemed slightly awkward as he crossed over to Harry and stuck out a hand.

     “Markus Ryan Cameron,” He looks down at the offered hand before grasping it with his own, using the same handshake that was drilled into memory-he had to constantly practice it, in order to meet other nobles properly.

     “Harry Edward Styles.” Both sides are slightly weary as they eye each other, not quite sure where they stand in the others’ standards. Then, Markus clears his throat and says,

     “I apologize for everything that I have done the past day.”

     “I apologize for everything that has ever occurred unintentionally by me.”

     After the few words, it’s as though a wall has been broken-they both release sighs of relief, and the silence is less strained. Markus starts the next conversation-

     “You are quite injured, I believe,” He says, eyeing Harry’s form. Harry looks down and shuffles his feet slightly- he knows that he looks absolutely awful right now, with frayed pants, and a shirt that is barely still hanging on to his chest. Burns, flakes of ashes, scratches, and bruises litter his body, old and new, and although none of them are fatal or dangerous, it is still slightly bothering.

     “I am fine,” Harry replies slowly, drawing out his words. The concern is strange, and not necessarily needed. The man is unconvinced, and keeps pressuring him.

     “We would like to help,” Harry believes that he is referring to the others, who were in the front of the carriage, “You are currently the most injured right now. There’s a chance of both blood loss and infection.” Harry frowns and shakes his head.

     “No, I truly am fine,” He tenses his shoulders, trying to give an uncomfortable aura so that the man would stop his attack.

     “We just want to help-” Markus takes a step forward, and Harry then takes a step back, protectively wrapping his arms over his chest.

     “Please do not. I do not want or need your help.” His voice comes out as hard and curt without meaning to, with a slightly defensive edge to it.  _ You can’t let him see,  _ his mind screams at him.  _ Don’t let him. _

* * *

__ _ Harry leans heavily against the cold wall, looking at the pool of blood with a slight detachment.  _ **_That’s my blood,_ ** _ he thinks.  _ **_No, not it’s not, that’s not my blood._ ** _ He frowns, puzzled, his eyes glued to the dark red color that was staining his shirt.  _ **_I don’t feel pain. Why don’t I feel it?_ ** _ He feels lost. His head is fuzzy, and he can’t seem to remember what happened to him. _

_      His eyes then trail to the motionless body in front of him. Suddenly, everything comes rushing back.  _

**_You killed him!_ ** _ His mind is screaming at him. _

**_Don’t think about ever telling anyone, ever. This is our secret._ ** _ Suddenly, his father’s voice infiltrates his thoughts. _

**_I’ll see what I can do to help, Harry, but there’s not much I can say about the King._ ** _ The unnamed guard’s voice is talking, the man which Harry labels with the dead body in front of him. _

**_He’s dead because of your stupidity._ **

**_Think of this as a warning. You tell someone, they die._ **

**_It’s treason to go against the King._ **

**_Why couldn’t you keep your big mouth shut?_ **

**_I am your father. You do as I say._ **

**_I’m just a guard, there’s not much I can do._ **

_      The voices mix in his head, filling him with words, different volumes and tones, slowly amplifying, until they’re all shouting, creating a sharp headache. It’s slowly clearing, however, and Harry can start to remember everything that happened. Everything that  _ **_he_ ** _ did. _

_      He had cracked, finally, when he was seven years old. He had chosen a random guard, one with wise eyes and a kind smile, and blurted all of his secrets. How his father was hurting him. He had pulled his shirt up, showing off fresh, purplish bruises from the day before, and begged the guard to do something. _

_      The guard did do something-he went straight to the King and told him everything. _

_      Harry’s father had came the next day, dragging the guard with him. Harry was tied up, and forced to watch as the king stabbed the guard, leaving them both to scream, one from fear and the other from pain, until the blood had flooded everywhere, covering Harry, and the guard died. _

_      “You will never tell anyone.” His father’s voice floated around, the unspoken warning filling the air. Harry’s eyes were wide, filled with a wild panic, as the man died in front of his eyes.  _ **_You killed him. You caused this._ **

_      Harry curled up and cried silently. The blood coated his shirt, his hands, his entire body. The tangy, copper odor filled his smell, and soon, the blood was everywhere-in his nose, his eyes, his ears, his mouth-Harry was drowning in the thick blood. As he lay there, he promised to never cause another person to die. _

**_Never again._ **

* * *

**** Harry remembers his own promise vividly, and is determined to keep it. He shakes his head adamantly as the man tries again, and stumbles backwards. That’s when he hears shouting.

     He’s out the door, relieved at the chance to escape the stuffy room. Right as he leaves, the two girls and the mother are both shoved through the door, and it’s slammed shut. Harry can hear the urgency in the voices of the three voices in front of him, and it spurs him forward. They’re all leaning out the opening, looking at something behind him. That’s when he hears the trumpets, and all of his thoughts leave his mind. He shoves through the crowd of boys to peer past the edge.

     The rich colors of white and red waver in his vision as the flag of England’s Royal Army comes into view. They had found Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	6. I'll Stitch My Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry can feel himself fall, his hands waving helplessly in front of him. It’s as though he’s in water-he can’t breathe, but he can see himself drop slowly, in slow motion. His life flashes before his eyes, and he imagines his body colliding against the hard, gravel ground. There’s no way that he could possibly survive falling, and then getting stomped by hooves or run over. The impact of a harsh fall itself could break his neck instantly. There’s no hope.  
> This is it. I’m going to die.

     Harry can hear high pitched ringing in his ears and a sinking feeling in his gut. It’s the kind that makes you want to curl up and cry, the kind that gives you raw  _ despair _ , the kind that makes you want to give up. But Harry doesn’t-instead, he straightens up and wills the anger to come. He thinks about  _ every fucking thing  _ that the monarchy had done to him, all of the scars that will forever mark his body, the fear and pain he had to feel, and slowly, he can feel the intense hate rise and replace his sadness. 

     The simple idea of returning to his father makes him want to vomit. He can already feel his body start to shut down, ready and pliant to be burned and cut and beaten and broken. He closes his eyes, letting the rage burn through his body like a wildfire. He is ready to fight, he is ready to show no mercy, he is ready for revenge.

     His mind is already coming up with different ways to stop them, and he blindly reaches for a lone knife sitting on the ledge. He grasps it firmly in his hand and inspects it. It’s a medium size, pretty balanced and the edge is sharp.  _ It’ll do.  _ Harry heads towards the entrance, his mind getting sharper and his strides filling with purpose. He’s almost there, when suddenly, there’s a body blocking him.

     He frowns, and then Niall’s standing in front of him. He’s obviously filled with tension, his face taut with worry and- _ fear.  _ Niall is just standing there, and in the back of his mind, there’s still a slight feeling of understanding-they must think that he’s trying to leave. But, more overwhelming, is the need to stop the guards-he doesn’t trust anybody else to deal with this problem-he was always stronger independent. There was no plan, he just went with whatever happened, and someone else being there would ruin it. Niall still stood there, trying to get him to stop.

     But Harry doesn’t have time to try and reason with them. Every second wasted could get them caught, and Harry isn’t about to let that happen.

     “If you want to see another day from outside instead of a prison cell, I suggest you keep your goddamn mouth shut and let me deal with this.” His voice is harsh and impatient, but he doesn’t have any tolerance to work with other people right now.

     Niall stumbles back, a flash of anger and hurt crossing his expression, and the other two step up as though to defend him. He roughly shoves past Liam, sidestepping to get through, heads for the entrance.. Harry leans out of the door, narrowing his eyes on the approaching carriage, and calculates his time. His heart is beating loudly and his throat is dry-he knows that what he does right in this moment would make or break his future. As he had no plans to go back to his father anytime soon, he knows that he had to do stop the guards.

     Harry decides to get on the roof of the carriage-he has a better view up there, and can do whatever needs to be done. He puts the knife between his teeth, careful to not cut himself. Then, he grasps the edge of the door above him, and uses it to swing his body over. Once his hands are at the bottom and he’s suspended in mid air, he lets go and pushes himself up and away from the door, and swings his legs, curving around the corner of the top of the carriage, until he can flip his upper body backwards and land on his feet. 

     As he straightens up to a standing position on the roof of the carriage, he thanks his father for forcing him to perfect the move. Harry glides to the back edge of the vehicle and crouches down, holding the knife loosely in his right hand. His eyes never leave the fancy carriage behind them, and he prepares himself for the next action.

     The horses of the royal carriage are strong and healthy, and the carriage itself is high-technology, making it faster and more reliable than the rebel’s broken, beaten down one. He can see the horses, trained to perfection, increase their speed slightly as they hunt him down. They are both purebred white horses, each tied separately to the carriage with ropes. They’re the only control for the carriage, so Harry focuses on them.

     They have no problem catching up to them, and it starts to draw nearer and nearer. Harry counts five guards in total, all of them with grim, dark looks. Harry recognizes all but one- they are part of the inner circle of guards, the strongest, most skilled ones, the ones that are completely loyal to the King. Harry doesn’t know whether to be honored or surprised that his father sent the best troops to bring him back.  _ Kill them! They don’t deserve to live! These are the people that started the fire and murdered Tyler.  _ Harry ignores his vicious, screaming mind, (although he really wants to) and instead, focuses on stopping the carriage. He lifts the knife, twirling it once before pulling his arm back to throw.

     The knife hits its mark perfectly-the reigns of the horse on the left. It slices through cleanly before thudding to the front of the carriage. Almost immediately, the carriage starts turning as the one horse struggles to pull forward. The other one, now free, is already galloping away, frightened and surprised. Harry does not give himself the chance to think before he shoves off of his carriage and flies through the air. He knows that he needs to finish it off before the carriage turns to far or spins out of control.

     He manages to grasp the edge of the cut rope that is attached to the carriage and hangs on tightly. His feet can almost reach the ground, and he struggles to keep his hold on the surprisingly smooth rope. He ignores the thundering hooves of the horse, which were right by his face, and takes a deep breath. He’s then reaching for the thrown knife that is embedded in the carriage wood, yanking it out roughly, when the entire vehicle jerks. With a cry of surprise, he loses his grip on the edge of the rope and falls, clutching the knife tightly to his chest.

     But he never does reach the ground. Right before he is going to collide on the gravel and get run over, a hand grabs the front of his shirt. The tattered thing rips almost immediately, but it gives him just enough time to reach forward and grasp the person’s upper arm. He isn’t thinking, can only hear the pounding of his heart, and drags himself upward. He can now see that the person is seated on the horse, holding himself stable with one arm while the other is helping Harry. He is able to pull himself up, swinging his leg over, and upright himself behind the person.

     It was Louis.

     He looked like an angel-one with a grim, slightly angry look on his face, his lips pulled back in a pout and his eyes dark.  _ He saved my life.  _ Harry’s heart is beating heavily, and he’s coming to the fact that he almost died. He’s holding on tight to Louis’ surprisingly muscular upper arm, his body pressed tightly to his back. 

     Louis must have followed Harry when he jumped off the carriage. However, unlike Harry, he was successful in the jump. He probably hit the ledge at the top before sliding down to the horse and saving Harry, because he didn’t feel any sudden jolt. Landing heavily on the horse itself would have definitely caused it to freak out.

     Harry takes a moment to enjoy the fact that he was very much alive and well, before spurring into action.

     They are both on the horse, and the carriage is still tilting, so Harry moves swiftly and efficiently. He needs to cut the ropes that are connecting them to the carriage in order get away and stop the guards from following them. There’s only one way to reach them with his knife while staying seated on the horse-he has to use Louis as an anchor.

     Harry wraps his legs around Louis’ body, hooking his ankles together, ignoring the surprised squeak that leaves the boy’s lips. However, Louis does not falter in his posture, and he is solid and warm, unmoving. Ignoring the intimate position, he arches his back, bending until he is upside down, secured only by Louis. Reaching out, he uses the hard-earned knife (that almost got him killed) to slash the reigns.

     Two things happen at once- the carriage, having lost the only control it had left, veers off, carrying the angry shouts of guards with it. Harry watches with satisfaction as it careens to the side, of the road, and crashes into the nearby trees. The horse, free from its burdens, speeds up, and Harry dangles helplessly, praying to god that Louis knows how to control his horse. And as Harry pulls himself upwards into a sitting position, it is obvious that he does.  As they make their getaway, a feeling of euphoria rushes through Harry.

     Harry is completely shirtless, since it ripped off of him, and the wind from the neck-breaking speed feels good. His hair is all over the place, getting in his eyes and mouth, and Harry feels free. He’s pressed up against Louis, both of his hands wrapped around his shoulders for support so that he won’t fall off. He’s still holding the knife in one hand, and carefully slips it back into the knife belt that Louis is wearing.

     Louis is completely focused on the carriage up ahead, which is nearing them rapidly. He can see both Liam and Niall leaning out from the side, yelling encouragement as they draw close. Louis is biting his lip, concentrating, using his knees to gently guide the horse. They both know that one small mistake could easily cause them to lose control over it, but so far, it seems to be fine.

     The problem comes when they are side by side with the carriage. There’s no way that they can get off the horse and make it into the carriage, not at the speed they are going. There’s also no way to slow the untamed horse, or get both the carriage and their speeds to line up. Currently, they are around the same, and are side-by-side, so they must take the opportunity before something happens and they can’t get back to the carriage. Harry reluctantly unhooks his arms from Louis, just keeping one hand on his shoulder, as they both start to realize that there’s no way to do this without someone getting hurt. 

     Before Louis gets any stupid ideas, Harry grabs either side of his waist and lifts him up easily. Louis has already saved his life once, so he might as well return the favor. Besides, his friends and perhaps family are waiting for him, while Harry doesn’t have anyone important to stay alive and well for. The only way for at least one of them to make it out alive is if Harry throws him. 

     Louis lets out a yell of surprise as he’s suddenly dangling in the air, and tries to kick at him. Harry ignores it and looks toward the entrance of the moving carriage, where both Niall and Liam are waiting. Harry knows that they would catch Louis, so without a second thought, he’s tossing the boy towards them. He doesn’t look to see what happens, although Louis’ indignant yells are proof enough that he’s fine. 

     Harry then focuses on getting the horse under his control. He actually hasn’t rode a horse in quite a while, but muscle memory helps him steer it closer. Harry is preparing to jump, figuring out the power, distance, and aim needed to make it, when the horse suddenly decides to jolt forward, finally realizing that it’s free and not controlled. Harry has no choice but to jump off, way too early and unprepared. 

     He’s flying awkwardly through the air, with no control over his jump, and knows that he aimed too far back. He reaches for Liam’s outstretched hand but misses, barely, fingertips brushing, and slams against the carriage, making it wobble slightly. His arms reach out to grab anything,  _ anything,  _ and they manage to curl around the edge of the entrance.He’s holding on to the outside of the door with one hand, and is reaching forward to get steady and pull himself up when one of his legs, which were close to the ground, pressed against the carriage so that they don’t collide, slip. 

     His entire body twists sideways and his leg hits the back wheel. Then, before he can do anything, it catches in the axle. His entire leg is yanked in a continuous circle, the ankle hooked and stuck, and a split second later, there is a loud, sickening  _ crack.  _ Sharp pain shoots up his entire leg, and Harry knows immediately that the bone is broken. Black spots dot his vision, and his fingers, numb from the pressure, loosen their grip. 

     It’s as though he’s in slow motion-he’s falling, but then there’s a hand grabbing his arm, pulling him up and away. He tumbles into the carriage, landing heavily on top of the other person. He can’t see properly, but is able to roll over and flop pathetically on the ground. He can hear frantic voices, and then someone is on top of him, straddling his hips and slapping him lightly.

     “C’mon, Harry, stay with us.” He recognizes it as Louis, and then starts to notice the fact that he’s shirtless, and that Louis’ hand is soft against his cheek. The voice cooing at him is comforting, and he enjoys the attention

     “You fucking  _ idiot,”  _ someone is muttering, and the mood is ruined. Harry just smiles dumbly at the silhouette above him. The voice is sharp and filled with tension, but there’s an air of regality to it, and it’s obviously Louis. He can feel hands on his body, brushing and pulling at him, but he really doesn’t notice. His leg throbs, the first wave of pain gone, and the weight on top of him is just enough to keep him grounded. 

     Suddenly, Harry forgets how to breathe-the most beautiful, bright eyes are staring down at him. Harry can slowly see the edges of his vision darken, and he continues to admire the sapphire color until he slips into unconsciousness.

* * *

_      Harry dreams of the ocean. He had read about it in a book, and had seen beautiful drawings of the blue water. He’d never actually seen it, with his own eyes, but nonetheless, it was his favorite thing in the entire world. _

_      It was so unique, with hundreds of shades of green and blue, layers of sea life, salty wind and sand. He imagined swimming in the unstoppable force, seeing the endless sky stretch for miles and miles, enjoying the tangy smell of salt, and basking in the heat of the sun. _

_      The one thing that really drew Harry to the ocean was the fact that it was one of the few things that could not be tamed. The waves would always keep going, continuous, infinite, without stop. Even if his father, the King wished it to disappear, it wouldn’t. It was its own ruler, standing alone, with complete and absolute power. _

_      The idea of having no limitations appealed to Harry. He imagined getting a boat, going out to the waves and escaping everything, until the water and wind was all he knew. It seemed so simple, so easy to just leave. Perhaps he and Gemma could go someday. They could finally be free from their father. They could sail to the Americas or some foreign, unknown place, and live their lives in peace, just the two of them. _

_      But things don’t always work the way you want them to. So Harry was stuck in the dull, grey castle, landlocked and drowning in his misery. He would sometimes sit on the ledge of the window during sunset and imagine what it would be like to be on the beach, watching the last rays of light die out. The water would reflect it, too, the colors of orange and blue contrasting each other, warm and cool colors mixing together until it was all one and Harry couldn’t see the horizon. _

_      But for now, he would just pretend. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	7. I'll Pull The Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wishes that the boys would go away. He wishes that his thoughts would too, that his conscious and his mind would leave him alone. He wishes that his demons and nightmares would escape their cage in his heart, that everything and everyone would just vanish.  
> Harry wished that the would would stop turning, because it was going to fast, and he couldn’t keep up. Everything was in fast motion, a blur in his eyes, while he stood, frozen, left behind and forgotten.  
> Harry felt like the weight of the entire world was on his shoulders, slowly pushing him down until he just broke from the pressure.  
> Harry was exhausted.

     Harry’s ears wake up before his eyes can open. There’s soft murmuring coming from the right, and everything is warm and floaty. He relaxes, feeling comfortable and unstressed, a faint buzzing vibrating in his head. That’s when he’s dragged back to earth.

     As his body starts to actually feel, he notices a sharp pain in his ankle, and and overall ache. His lips involuntarily draw into a pout, and Harry wishes that the can go back into dreamland and away from discomfort. But no such luck. The pain in his leg grows and grows, and a groan leaves his lips. He squints his eyes open, but then immediately closes them as the bright sunlight blinds him. His noise seems to attract attention, because the voices cut off and he can hear heavy footsteps head in his direction.

     Harry lies there for a second, breathing in and out, focusing on where the pain is. There’s the normal bruises and scratches, and his hands are raw from hanging onto the rope. The main problem is his throbbing ankle. He manages to open his eyes, blinking a few times to clear his fuzzy vision, and focuses on the crowd of people.

     It’s just the three boys-Louis, Liam, and Niall. They’re huddling together in the corner, eyeing him, looking for a threat. Harry feels something hard against his ankle-it seems like a splint-they must have wrapped it up while he was unconscious. Harry ignores them for a moment and looks around, twisting his sore neck to see where he is. He realizes that he’s not inside-he’s spread out on the right side of the carriage, near the opening, and feels a slight wind against his skin.

     His bare skin.

     He looks down and realizes that he’s literally in nothing but his underwear-both his shirt and pants are missing. Almost immediately, he scrambles into a sitting position, eyes wide with shock. He tries to curl up into a fetal position, but he can’t put pressure on his ankle without it hurting, so he just pulls up his other knee to his chest and hugs his leg.

     “What-why-my clothes. Where did you put my clothes?” He starts off stuttering before calming himself and finishing the questions. The boys have the decency to look slightly embarrassed, but all of Harry’s thoughts go blank when Louis opens his mouth.

     “We saw the, uh, scars,” He mumbles it quietly, and Harry’s heart stops.

     His scars?

     A quick glance down to his chest explains everything. He’s shirtless, which means there’s nothing covering his wounds, his scars, his secrets. The one thing that was private to him.

     He has a few bruises and scratches from his father that are starting to disappear, along with the burns from the fire, but those are not his concern. The problem is the layers of scars from the King. He’s got quite an impressive collection from years of living in the castle.

     The most noticeable scar is a large, jagged one from the top of his left shoulder to his right hip. It’s a silvery pink, healed for years, from when his father sliced him with a sword. It was one of the few times that Harry truly thought that he was going to die, if Gemma wasn’t there. The one long line is decorated with several burn scars and smaller gashes from various times. He has the word PROPERTY OF KING carved into his right collarbone, below his shoulder, along with a nick in his side where an arrow had grazed past him.

     His entire back is mutilated from whip marks, varying in size and shape, creating an ugly web down his back. His father used them quite a lot, and there was no bare, unblemished skin. Going down, his legs were mostly unmarked (if you ignore the smaller scars) except for thin, long knife marks from his hip to his knee on either side of his body. He’s also got several thicker scars and marks on the soles of his feet-they would reopen every once in awhile, when he overused them. 

     There is only one thing that Harry was truly ashamed about-the thickly scarred, hideous marks on his inner thigh and below his hips. He always had a problem with controlling himself when it came to self-mutilation, but sometimes it just became to hard, and the urge to cut was irresistible.

* * *

_ Harry curls up into a ball, sobbing as he lays there, trembling. His mind is, unfortunately, still anchored, and he can feel and understand everything that is happening. The kicks get a little harder, and his mouth opens, letting another pained scream force its way out. Every kick hits solidly against his body, and sends unbearable pain through his entire body. _

_      Eventually, everything begins to blur before becoming numb, and then Harry can’t feel it. He’s trembling, the stone floor cold against his cheek, waiting for his father to finish and leave him alone. _

_      “You’re useless. You’re a pathetic, stupid, hopeless little bitch.” His father is yelling. “You’re never going to amount to anything. You’re never going to be King, not as the lazy idiot you are right now!” His words soak into Harry, and they latch tight to his memory, not letting go. Even when his father gets bored and leaves, the words continue to attack him. _

_      Gemma finds him still laying there, eyes glazed over and his mouth working silently, repeating everything the King had said. He’s still repeating them, over and over, as she picks up his bloody, broken body and carries him back. He’s starting to become too heavy for her to hold, but she still tries. _

_      He cuts for the first time that night. _

_      It’s not like he actually meant to, it’s just that he  _ **_needed_ ** _ to. He was curled up on the bed by himself, Gemma downstairs getting a cup of tea. Then there’s this unbearable itch, and Harry  _ **_needs_ ** _ to do something. He’s involuntarily getting out of bed and crossing the room, picking up the knife that’s sitting on the wardrobe top, sitting down against the wall. _

_      He’s only wearing underwear and covered in bandages, but his pale, unblemished thighs are bare. He’s just sitting there, wondering what it would look like covered in the color of red, and the want and need becomes too much. The tip breaks the skin and a small, red drop appears. _

_      His entire world is completely monotonous, black and white, but his blood is screaming and bright. It’s the only color he sees, and he can’t tear his eyes away. His hand is moving, painting more and more red across his thigh, over and over. He doesn’t actually feel it, all that he can think about is the artwork he’s creating, the beautiful color that comes out of the knife. That’s when he hears screaming, and then the knife is yanked out of his hand and Gemma is in front of him, crying. _

_      He cuts again the next week. _

_      And the next. _

_      And the next. _

_      It becomes an addicting routine, soon a daily activity for him. It’s the only thing he has control over in his life, and he can’t help but continue. He knows that it’s tearing Gemma apart, but it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.  _

_      So he finds himself sitting down every day, tearing deep gashes in his thighs, creating lines and paths and roads. The blood is bright and attracting, and he  _ **_needs_ ** _ it. He curls up at night with his beloved knife, drawing the lines and paths and roads, creating large maps on his thighs and hips, elaborate, endless routes that lead to nowhere. But Harry continues, desperately hoping that one day the road he draws will have an ending. _

_      Gemma finally manages to make him stop. He doesn’t want to listen at first, but then Zayn steps in, and he learns to not be so  _ **_fucking_ ** _ selfish, to stop cutting so that he doesn’t hurt the people around him anymore. He still wants to, so bad, but he doesn’t  _ **_need_ ** _ to. For once in his life, there’s light at the end of the tunnel, and he doesn’t need the scarred maps on his legs to show him which way to go. _

_      Then Zayn dies. _

_      His father is worse than normal, and the words cut deeper. Harry is lost, floundering, with no direction. He spins out of control, living off of the words that the King says. Slut. Whore. Stupid. Useless. Pathetic. Bitch. Idiot. This time, he doesn’t cut for the color or for the map. He cuts because he deserves it-just like he deserves every word and blow that comes his way. He ruins everybody’s life, so it’s only fair that he punishes himself. _

_      Gemma makes him stop. Again. He’s able to pull himself together, and he lasts years without relapsing. They’re holding on, by a thread, but together, they’re able to survive. Harry feels better, not his best, but he can live without cracking or collapsing. They lean on each other and fight everything that life throws at them. _

_      Then Gemma leaves. _

_      His entire world collapses. _

_      He relapses the next day, and it’s the most painful thing he’s ever done. He’s aware of every line he makes, every drop of blood, and he can hear Gemma’s desperate screams in the back of his head. All of her efforts were for nothing. _

_      Harry uses his knife as a pen, and his thighs and his hips as paper. And with the sharp blade, he writes stories. Stories about his life, Zayn, Gemma, his father. He writes to everyone he’s loved, about his pain and sadness and terror. Every single cut is another story, something that will last forever. Harry marks his body, pouring his emotion into his knife and spilling his blood, so that he’s not forgotten, so that his story is permanent. _

* * *

__ But most of the cuts couldn’t be seen, located strategically where they can be seen, and Harry is eternally grateful for it. He’d feel even better, though, if they weren’t staring at his scarred, uncovered chest.

     He’s torn between scared and mad-they now know his deepest secret, the one that he had promised to never tell anyone, and the idea alone sends shivers of terror down his spine, but at the same time, they violated his privacy, purposely looked for things they shouldn’t have.

     They’re at a stalemate-Harry is pressed in one corner, huddled against the wall with a fast beating heart, trembling hands and dry throat, while the other three boys are on the opposite side, looking straight at him. Harry can feel a panic attack coming.

     “Why do you have so many scars?” Liam is looking at him with a mix of pity and horror. Harry stays silent and focuses on a spot in the floor, heaving deep breaths. He battles every emotion in his head, confusion and anger and sadness and fear swirling around into a hurricane. 

     “Who did this to you?” Liam tries again, but Harry just works on stopping the flow of panic. He grabs one of his wrists, pinching it sharply to try and get himself to center his attention. It’s not like he’d actually answer the question-it’s his privacy, his secrets. The less they know, the better.

     “Harry. Who hurt you? Why are you covered in those?” This time, Niall is the one that asks. Harry keeps his head down, pinching harder and biting his lower lip.  _ Go away. Please, leave me alone.  _ He begs them mentally, but to no luck. They’re still standing there, burning him with their eyes, and Harry just needs some time to compose himself. He swallows a sob and lowers his head further. He’s completely aware of their gazes on him, on his still form, his bare back, and they’re reading every secret off of him. 

     “What happened? Was there an accident? Is someone hurting you on purpose? How long have you had these?” Harry is being overloaded by questions, and he feels like he’s sinking underwater. He drowns out their voices until they’re in the distance. He feels stinging in his eyes, and realizes that he’s about to cry.  _ No, no no! Go away, leave me alone, go away!  _ He repeats his thoughts in his head, screaming with torment and infuration and despondency.

_      They aren’t supposed to care. Why do they care? They shouldn’t. I’m a monster. A monster. Monster, monster, monster, bad, bad, bad.  _ Harry can feel his sanity slowly slip away as curls up tighter in the corner.

     “Are you alright?” Louis’ voice rings out, and the concern lacing his voice is Harry’s breaking point.

     “No! It’s nothing! Just leave me alone!” Harry can faintly feel himself raise his head and scream the words. He’s leaning back against the wood, feeling exposed as his chest comes into view. His voice breaks at the end, and he slumps down, suddenly exhausted.

     It’s quiet after his outburst, all three of them silent with shock, blinking at him owlishly. Harry wished they would just  _ go away.  _ He was so tired, his eyes droopy and closing, but he couldn’t go to sleep, not now, not after everything that was happening. He was conscious of how naked he was.

     “We will, if you tell us what it is.” Liam bargains with him. Harry ignores them. Sliding further down the wall and letting out a groan of discomfort. 

     “Just this one thing. Please.” His voice has taken an almost begging tone, pleading for him to answer.

     “Why do you even care about what it is?” Harry rasps out, slightly curious but irritated. “Why do you give a shit about what happened to me?” His voice rises, taking on a slightly hysterical tone. They don’t react to his louder voice, just stare accusingly at him. Harry hates it.

     “We want to know more about you. You are the prince, you know. The more we know, the stronger we are.”  _ You’re part of the monarchy. Tell us your secrets so that we can defeat you.  _ Harry reads the underlying message and whips his head up to glare at them. Liam’s tone seemed uninterested, bored, but Harry was good at reading people, and could tell that it was just a cover. Liam really wants to know why he has scars.

     “I don’t give a fuck about what you want,” Harry replies in a sharp tone. He knows that Liam probably didn’t actually mean what he said, but it still hurt.  _ You’re part of the monarchy. You’re not with them. You’re not friends. Don’t forget that. _ As though reading his thoughts, Niall sneers back,

     “Remember, you’re still the prisoner here. We could easily get information from you in unpleasant ways. Be glad that you’re even untied and that we’re treating you well.”

     Harry grimaces, swallowing his injured pride. He half expects-no, hopes-that Louis or Liam will negate his words, tell him that he  _ wasn’t  _ a prisoner, that they were friends, that they’d never do anything bad to him. But he knows better. No one reacts to Niall’s words. In fact, Liam gives a small nod of agreement.

     Harry ignores the angry, betrayed part of his mind - _ You aren’t friends. You barely know them. They’re your enemies.  _ He sucks in a deep breath, clears his mind, and snaps a cold  _ fuck off,  _ which they promptly disregard. He looks at them, knowing that the hurt and anger is obvious in his eyes, and meets Louis’ cool blue ones. He thinks he sees a flash of- guilt? -but it’s gone as soon as it came, and Harry blames it on his imagination.

     “Was it an accident? Did someone do this on purpose? What happened?” Liam is back to interrogating, and Harry rolls his eyes. He knows that he’s being immature, but he’s hoping that if he acts cold and bratty enough, they’ll give up and leave him alone.

     “Fuck off.” He mutters again. He’s still leaned up against the wall, but he gives a slight pout and crosses his arms.

     “Some of them are old. Was there a fire in the castle?” Liam barges on, and Harry just replies again,

     “Fuck off.” 

     “Did someone attack you?” Liam is still pestering him. Harry glares up at him through his heavy lidded eyes, irritation blooming.

     “Fuck off.”

     “No can do, sweetheart. We’re kind of in a moving carriage right now.” Harry’s head shoots up at Louis’ lilting drawl. Louis is leaning against the wall opposite to him, his arms crossed, too, and a dark expression on his face.

     “Go check on the family. I can handle this.” Louis tells Liam and Niall before turning his attention back to Harry. The other two slip silently into the other room, leaving them to continue glaring at each other. Harry’s mouth is twisted into a frown, and Louis is scowling.

     “Handle me? What, am I five or something?” Harry sneers. He doesn’t know why, but something about Louis’ mocking tone that makes him infuriated. He’s really not used to this kind of attention-his father was always harsh and to-the-point, not dancing around with his words.

     “You’re acting like a child,” Louis smirks back. “Oh, wait, you are!” He acts mock-surprised, sarcasm lacing his words, and Harry bristles.

     “I’m not a child!”

     “You’re what, fourteen?”

     “Sixteen!” 

     Harry is  _ really, really  _ mad right now. He’s definitely not a child-he’s not naive  _ or  _ innocent  _ or  _ stupid.

     “I’m probably the same age as you, anyways!” He’s stumbling over his words now, feeling a white hot flash of anger.

     “Three years your senior, sweetheart.” Louis is has an insufferable smirk on his face, and Harry really wants to slap it off.

     “Three years is nothing! And I’m not a sweetheart!” Harry doesn’t even know why he’s yelling. All of the pent up frustration is leaving him now, and he’s getting more and more riled up.

     “Of course you’re not,” Louis pretends to coo. “You’re a li’le brat,” He pronounces ‘little’ by making the t’s silent, and Harry notices how rough and  _ inelegant  _ it was. No one in the royal court would ever pronounce it that way.

     “I’m not lit’tle, I’m bigger than you.” Harry growls back, making sure to say his ‘little’ the proper way.

     “Sweetheart, you’re a kid.” Louis says it with such finality that Harry shuts his mouth and bites his indignant reply. 

     “And you’ll do as we say, because you’re the captive,” Louis is suddenly behind him, grabbing his arm and forcing him up. He stumbles as his injured foot hits the ground, and falls to his knees. Then Louis is tieing him, and Harry forces the embarrassed blush down. As the crown prince, the only person he’d ever kneeled for was his father, but now he was here, in front of a rebel, tied up and helpless.

     The thought drains all of his earlier confidence and Harry lowers his head, bites his lip, and fights back the tears that threaten to return. He’s still there, Louis now with a harsh grip on his hair, yanking his head back, as Niall, Liam, and the rest of the family shuffle out. He sees both Leanne and Lynnette with identical worried looks on their faces, eyeing his position. He catches the eye of Lynnette, who shyly signs  _ Are you okay?  _ at him, and he nods. The entire family looks slightly confused at what had happened between them, but they ignore him and stay on the other side of the area.

     “We’re almost at camp,” Liam announces. Harry flinches slightly at his voice and keeps his gaze lowered, too humiliated to look at him.

     The silence is stifling, and he can still feel the eyes of everyone on him. They stand there awkwardly as the carriage creaks forward. Louis still has a strong grip on his curls, and he had repositioned so that his knee is digging into Harry’s back. His knees are aching, and he’s forced to keep his head up and arch his back slightly. He knows that Louis is doing it on purpose, probably punishing him for his earlier outburst.

     But Harry never really had the chance to fight back with his father, so he actually feels exhilarated from the argument. He snapped back and wasn’t slapped, kicked, or hit. Harry bites back the smile that is starting to show.  _ I could get used to this. _

     When he finally looks up, he sees both Leanne and Lynnette looking at him. He gives them both a toothy grin, reassuring them that he was fine. They return the smile, and Harry feels a slight pang in his chest. He’d always wanted younger siblings, but since the Queen was dead and the King was insane…

     Harry shakes the unpleasant thought out of his head as the carriage jerks to a stop. He looks out at his surroundings and sees a tall, formidable building looming over them. It’s made of cobblestone, five stories tall and quite wide. It must be the headquarters for the rebel movement.

     Harry’s mouth is dry as gazes up at the building. It casts a shadow over them, and he involuntarily shivers. This was his future. Whatever happens to him depends on the people in this building. He’s forced to his feet and has to lean heavily against Louis, hopping on one foot. Niall is on his other side, both of them grabbing one of his tied arms and starting the slow movement towards the building. The family stays with Liam, who, once they have gotten off of the carriage, directs the horses around the building. Harry is dragged through the double doors, into the main entrance of the building.

     The inside is plain and simple, a counter in the back of the room and several people inside. They turn around as the door opens, and their faces are filled with shock as Harry is forced through them. But Harry’s attention is immediately on something else.

     There’s a commotion in the back of the room-two men are struggling against another one who is in a dirty, muddied royal guard uniform. He’s shouting and fighting against them, trying to break free, but is unable to. He turns in their direction and Harry gets a glance at his face.

     Harry recognizes him immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	8. I Bought These Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s entire life is a mess. His father is insane, his mother is dead, his sister doesn’t want him, his best friend was killed in front of his eyes, he’s now been kidnapped by rebels, and a certain blue-eyed, feather-haired boy seems to absolutely hate him. Everyone in England probably wants him dead, especially the rebels. And he’s in a building filled with them.  
> But a more pressing issue is his friend, who was also dragged into this mess because of him. Even if Harry can’t help himself, at least he can save the people around him. But he’s tied up, in a cell, with no way out, much less a way to get his friend out.  
> Harry really doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

     It’s Nick Grimshaw.

* * *

    _ The first time he met Nick, he’s covered head-to-toe in blood, and is being carried by Gemma. His father’s screams still echo in his ears as they escape out the back door to the courtyard. Normally, they could stay in their safe room, but the King is blocking the stairs that lead up to them.  _

_      Harry’s mind is fuzzy, his vision blurry, and his entire body screams with pain. He doesn’t even remember what he did, and stays stuck in the present, as Gemma stumbles forward, letting out short gasps as she continues out. He has no idea where they’re even going to do, but all they know is that it’s too dangerous to stay in the castle. _

_      “Hey, kids!” The voice is a hushed whisper, but Gemma immediately turns around in surprise. Everyone, both servants and guards, try to avoid them, because their father is a ticking bomb. But a man is talking to them, standing on the other side of the stone cobblestone. The man strides forward towards the two stricken children, a kind smile playing across his face. _

_      He’s taking Harry’s limp body out of Gemma’s arms, ignoring her protective look, before striding away with a  follow me  to her. He’s heading towards the back of the main castle area, where guards and servants live. There’s lined rows of small buildings, made to house those in service to the King and their families. The higher up guards and servants live inside the walled safety, while the others are forced to the outside, further away. _

_      The man leads them silently out towards the houses, and they slink into the shadowed stone path. Gemma follows numbly, unable to process what is happening. The three of them end up near the outskirts of the main area, still inside of the castle grounds, and into a small house. They enter, and are greeted with a shocked woman and two children. _

_      Almost immediately, the children are ushered out of the room by the woman, who had taken one look at Harry and paled. The man is already laying Harry’s bloody body down across the wooden table, pulling up a chair for Gemma. She sits      down beside him, taking one of his cold hands in hers and murmuring encouragement to him. _

_      The man disappears for a second before reappearing with the woman and a basket filled with medical supplies. He takes one pitying look at the pair of siblings before setting the basket down on the ground. He’s lost as of how to clean up wounds, but doesn’t have a chance to do anything before Gemma swoops down and starts to grab things. _

_      She’s efficient as she wipes blood away and stitches up the larger wounds, wrapping and bandaging. Soon, he’s completely free of blood, and Gemma is covered in his. _

_      “You do know that we’re the Prince and Princess, right?” Gemma turns to face the couple after she finishes with Harry. They both nod bleakly, and Gemma sighs. She heads to the kitchen and uses the sink, ignoring the bloody color that runs off of her palms. It’s completely silent until she returns, taking a seat in the chair, facing them. _

_      “Why did you help us?” She starts. _

_      “I couldn’t just leave two kids almost at death,” The man replies. He looks pityingly at her. Gemma is only twelve, but she seems like an adult, eyes matured from seeing things that she shouldn’t have to. _

_      “Thank you.” Her voice is defeated and she hangs her head before lifting it to meet the man’s eyes, before adding, “We’ll leave in the morning.”  _

_      “No, you should wait until he’s recovered-” Nick tries to protest, but Gemma cuts him off. _

_      “He’ll be fine by tomorrow.” Her voice is curt and leaves no room for argument. She turns around and takes Harry’s hand again, laying her head against the side of the table and resting. _

_      They leave the next morning, as soon as Harry wakes up. _

_      Neither of them have any idea of who the couple are, no names or anything, but they still see the man every once in awhile, in the hallways or courtyard. They learn that he’s one of the higher guards in the palace, not assigned specifically to the King, but still a captain of his own troop.  _

_      It’s two years later, after Gemma has left, that Harry finds himself in front of their door. He is, once again, covered in blood, shaking with terror, as he knocks on the wood in front of him. The man opens it up, takes one look at Harry, before ushering him in and helping him up onto the same wooden table as before. Harry gets a glance at the two children, who have grown slightly in the past years, before they exit to their rooms. _

_      The man and woman watch silently as Harry starts to stitch himself up, starting to calm down and realize what a stupid idea it was to come. Once he’s done, he tries to speak, but the man immediately cuts him off. _

_      “Do not be sorry, do not apologize. You are always welcome here.” The sincere voice and the kind words hit him and he starts crying, drawing his knees up and sobbing quietly. They’re both by his side immediately, cooing softly until he stops. _

_      “Nick Grimshaw, by the way. And this is Abbey, my wife.” Nick replies, giving him a crooked grin.  _

_      “Harry Styles,” he murmurs back shyly. Nick and Abbey share a grin as Harry opens up. He spends the night and meets their children, an outgoing five year old boy and four year old girl. He leaves the next morning, letting the  thank you s tumble out of his mouth. _

_      It’s two months later that he returns. After he’s cleaned up, they create a secret knocking pattern so that they know it’s him. They also leave out the medical basket, instead of putting it away, and Harry feels at home, for once. _

_      It becomes a routine for Harry. He tries to come at least once a month, even if it’s just to say hi, and Nick starts to become a fatherly figure to him. He doesn’t go every time he’s hit or beat up, not wanting to be a constant bother to the happy family, but he feels welcomed and loved every time he goes to their home. _

_      Harry owes Nick his life, a thousand times over. _

* * *

Nick Grimshaw looked exactly the same he did almost five years ago-fluffy hair, a rectangular face, big round eyes and the crooked half smile that seemed permanently frozen on his face. But in that moment, the smirk was gone, replaced with an irritated scowl. He seemed like the epitome of calm and disdain, but Harry could see the panic in his eyes. His hair was ruffled, lips parted slightly as he struggled against the guards. They had either arm in their tight grip, and were trying to drag him out. Nick was putting up a good fight-he had a bruised eye and a split lip, probably from when a rebel got fed up and punched him. Overall, he seemed fine, and Harry let out a sigh of relief after he fully inspects Nick.

     Then Nick notices him.

     His eyes grow wide with shock and he freezes. He stands there, stumbled backwards, shoulders slumping. His mouth is opening and closing like a fish as he gapes at the form of Harry, tied up and limping. His eyes, the ones that were so warm and welcoming years ago, flash with a hundred emotions-surprise, shock, anger, sadness, defeat. 

     The silence hovers over them with a loud hum, and it’s as though the entire world stills. Every single rebel in the room is staring at Harry, but all he sees is Nick. They’re in their own little bubble, surging back into the old memories. Then  Nick jolts forward suddenly, too fast for the guards to catch, and then Harry is stumbling forward awkwardly, and his mind is  _ Nick Nick Nick.  _ They collide in the middle, Nick's’ arms thrown haphazardly over his shoulders shoulders in an attempt to stabilize him.

     Harry leans into his touch, savoring the warmth, comfort, and sense of protection and security. He basks in the first familiar face he’d seen in days, suddenly feeling exhaustion set in. Nick’s body is worn and weathered from years of tough work, but Harry enjoys the aura of strength it gives. All of the worry and chaos from before fades away as Harry buries his head into Nick’s chest, and his fatherly figure runs his fingers through the tangly mess in his hair cooing softly.

     “What did they do to you?” Was Nick’s first question. His eyes roam Harry’s bruised, burned torso and his wrapped ankle.

     “M’ father, a fire, ‘s fault. It’s okay.” Harry mumbles tiredly, too exhausted to use full sentences.

     “Haz, love, are you okay? Are they treating you well?” Nick’s voice is still high and clear, but there's a slight rasp in his voice, probably from dryness. Harry just nods his head and cuddles him as well as he can, hands still tied. None of the guards have tried to tear them apart, and for a moment, everything is okay.

     “Better here.” Harry mumbles into the soft cloth of the royal guard, and is glad that Nick understands his short words. 

     “Love, you shouldn’t have left-he’s gonna be mad.” Harry scowls at the mention of his father.

     “No, don’t care. They’re good.”

     “Rebels, love. They’re rebels.”

     “Stay, help. I wanna help ‘em.” Harry’s voice is so quiet, Nick has to strain to hear.

     “That’s treason to the crown, Harry.”

     “I am the crown. Can’t do treason to myself. I’m staying.” Harry is firm on the idea. “You should, too.” He adds it as an afterthought.

     “Can’t, love. I have a family.”

     Harry lifts his head and stares into Nick’s eyes. There’s a hint of sadness and longing, and Harry makes his decision then. 

     “I’m getting you out of here.” He states resolutely. He makes sure to speak quietly, keeping the conversation private, because he doesn’t want any of the guards hearing him.Nick immediately shakes his head, trying to convince him not to.

     “No, love, it’s dangerous, don’t. I’ll be fine. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

     “I’m getting you out of here,” Harry repeats, jutting his lip out and pouting up at him. That’s when the guards all lept into action, most of them dragging Nick away, while a hand grabs his neck and suddenly he’s pulled backwards.

     “Thank you for everything you’ve done, I love you I love you I love you.” The words tumble out of his mouth as he struggles helplessly, watching Nick get dragged away. The hand on his neck tightens and then there’s another wrapping around his waist, effectively glues him to the rebel. He cranes his neck up and sees Louis there. 

     The boy has an almost bruising grip on him but doesn’t seem to have any attention on Harry. Instead, his eyes are are glaring at the receding figure of Nick, dark with hate, his lip curled into a scowl of disgust. Harry frowns, confused as to why he seems to hate Nick so much. There must have been some sort of feud in the past. 

     His thoughts are yanked away as he’s suddenly pushed forward, his injured foot slamming against the ground. He cries out and twists his body away, trying to get stable. Louis’ grip slips for a second before he catches him, and Harry finds himself bent backwards, Louis’ hand on the small of his back and the other gripped on his shoulder. Harry flushes as he realizes that it’s the same position used for dipping during dances, and renews his struggle to escape. He can feel the eyes of everyone burning into him, to the way he’s being manhandled.  _ They’ve probably never seen the crown prince tied up,  _ he thinks bitterly.

     “Fuck this.” Louis voice rings out, and a split second later, he’s completely swept off his feet. Harry lets out a yell of agitation, kicking his feet.

     “Let go of me, you bastard!” He hears himself hissing bitterly at Louis, who is currently carrying him towards a hallway, opposite to the one Nick disappeared into. “Okay,” Louis says.  And then he’s dropped. 

     He hits the ground with a thud, biting his lip to keep the pained groan in.  _ Everyone’s watching you. Don’t show weakness.  _ He lies there helplessly, ignoring the soft snickers and murmurs around him, Louis’ shadow hovering over him. He looks up at his face to see a look of complete and utter contempt on his face and glares back at him. Louis was being absolutely awful since their argument earlier, and Harry hates it. The silence doesn’t last long, because his already abused hair is being used to pull him to his knees. His face turns red again, as he can now see all of the rebels staring at the commotion. 

     “Yes, it’s the prince.” Niall’s voice startles him, because he had completely forgotten about the boy 

     “Now fuck off,” Louis finishes for him, and with a few grumbles of  _ yes sir _ , they start to leave. Harry slumps back with relief as they leave, letting out a snicker.

     “Sir?” The idea of a bunch of hardened rebels obeying a nineteen year old seems absurd.

     “Yes.” Louis’ voice is cold.

     “You’re nineteen!” Harry blurts out, raising an eyebrow.

     “I’m co-leader, along with Niall and Liam.” He replies coldly.

     “ _ You  _ lead the rebellion?” Harry’s draw drops. “ _ You,  _ a  _ nineteen  _ year old?”

     “The General does. Us three are right under her.” Louis realizes his mistake too late, and curses softly under his breath.

     “Her? She’s a girl?” Harry grins at that.  _ Gems was a great leader, too. _ But then Louis turns his face to him, blue eyes flashing icily, and says,

     “Look, sweetheart, I’m sick of your shit already. You’ve got at least a good few months here, and you’re going to keep your head down, listen to what we say, and  _ keep your fucking mouth shut. _ ” His hot breath is fanning against Harry’s ear, and for some reason, it irritates him to no end.

     “And if I don’t?” Harry snaps back.

     “There’s over a hundred guards here that have not seen their wives in months, and that loathe the monarchy. I’m sure that more than a few of them wouldn’t mind  _ tearing _ a pretty boy like you apart.” Harry’s blood runs cold, and he desperately tries to push nightmarish memories back.  _ What happened to the nice boy on the carriage?  _ He lets out a shaky breath and all of the fight leaves him. Louis takes the defeated slump of his shoulders as defeat and hauls him up, picking him up bridal style. Harry keeps his head down, pink blushing his cheeks, as they continue along. His eyes are narrowed and he looks around, tracking their path and creating a mental map in his head. 

     His mind wanders back to Nick, and he starts his escape plans. He only has one chance to act up, because after that, they would definitely tighten security. He would be able to free Nick, but the bold move would probably be the only one he’d make. But now he was having second thoughts-after the threat from Louis-maybe he should escape and go back home. The the image of his father floats up, and one glance crushes the idea.

     “The fucking co-captain of the rebellion and I’m stuck babysitting,” Louis grumbles to Niall, who is walking beside him, and Harry has to physically bite his lip to stop the  _ I’m not a baby  _ from slipping out, still aware and shaken from the earlier threat. Niall just grunts with agreement, and Harry keeps his head ducked. His thigh and upper chest where Louis is holding him burns, constantly reminding him that he’s being fucking _ carried _ . He would rather endure a broken ankle than this.

     “Gem better get back soon, ‘cos I’m not going to do this for long,” Louis continues, and Harry shoots his head up. 

_      Gem? _

     But after an icy glare from Louis, he ducks his head again, mind racing.  _ He must have said Gen,  _ he thinks.  _ Yeah, if he’s right below her, they must be pretty close. Gen is just an abbreviation for General. _ He crushes the hope of Gem standing for Gemma. Gem was  _ his  _ nickname for her, and he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else calling her that. Besides, he probably is just so desperate that his mind is making things up and hearing what it wants to. With that thought, he shuts down the idea, curling into a ball the best he can and focusing on the present.

     He needed to get Nick out, so that he could get back to his family. It was the least Harry could do, especially since he owed him his life. He went over different ideas, trying to decide how to get him out. It would definitely be best to leave just as it got dark, so that Nick would hopefully have an entire night to escape. He’d just need to create a distraction that would give him enough time to find Nick and get him out.

     He ends up in a little dark cell near the back of the building. There’s no windows, just three stone walls and rusty bars going up and down the front side. His ropes are cut, and his shoulders ache with pain. Harry already has a pretty good layout of the building-there’s a hallway going all the way around the building with rooms on either side, and a big one in the center, probably with stairs. Nick is on the opposite side of the building from him.

     Harry is deposited roughly into his cell and then left completely alone. He sits in the dark, wondering how he got into this huge mess, and how he’s going to get Nick, one of the only people he truly cares about, out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	9. They All Fall Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s footsteps echo down the corridor and he walks with purpose. The rebels he pass don’t bat an eye at him as he marches by, chin high and shoulders back. He’s a man on a mission, and right now, his goal is to get Nick out of here. He keeps his face blank and unreadable, eyes straight ahead and lips pulled into a pout.  
> One. Two. Three. Four.  
> Harry imagines being part of an army, just another puzzle piece in the grand scheme of things, men marching around him. There’s hundreds of invisible men surrounding him, all of them with the same motives as him, encouraging and supporting him as he continues through the passageway.  
> One. Two. Three. Four.  
> He’s doing this for the greater good. He’s on the right side, and his actions are justified. No one deserves to be locked up like an animal. He’s only got one thing that he needs to do, and it doesn’t matter how he does it.  
> One. Two. Three. Four.

     From where Harry is, there really isn’t much of view of either side of the hallway. The little cell that he’s in is parallel to the corridor, and all he can see is flickering torchlight and the natural light that seems to come from further down. He’s sitting with his back against the wall, in the center, facing towards the entrance. His own cell is filled with shadows, the corners dark, and the stone floor and walls are cold and hard.

     There’s a guard that comes by every ten minutes or so. The boots echo in the hallway and Harry can immediately tell that someone is coming. They always peer curiously into his cell, probably wanting to get a glance at the crown prince. Harry just keeps his face impassive and occasionally stretches his sore muscles. Inside, he’s a complete turmoil, frantically trying to come up with a foolproof plan, but on the outside, he’s calm.

     There’s a few different ideas already, but none of them work. Now, he’s just going through his options one by one, deciding what he can and can’t do. He doesn’t want to break open the cell door because it would create a lot of attention, so his only choice is to getting someone, preferably unknowingly, to open it.

     He’s sitting there for a few hours, starting to piece together his master plan. Different people would walk by occasionally, eager to see him. It was as though he was on display, caged for the rebel’s viewing pleasures. And, in a way, he was.

     Before he knew it, it was getting dark. The torches were brighter, and more shadows appeared. Only half of Harry’s cell was able to be seen, and Harry knew that he could use it to his advantage. Of course, there were no torches in his room, meaning that it was mostly dark, and it would be easy to hide, let’s say, a body in one of the corners.

     A guard had came by with a slice of bread and a metal canteen. Harry looks up when he hears jangling, and a middle aged guard is opening his door and stepping inside. He sneered at Harry as he tossed them to him, and Harry had to use all of his self control to stay calm and not attack the guard and get out. Instead, he pressed his lips together and looked the other way, feigning disinterest until he left. The cell door slammed shut, rattling slightly, and Harry ignores it, following a sudden idea.

     From what he’d seen, all guards had the same set of keys, so he could pick anyone to open his cell. It’d have to be someone less experienced, more nervous about being near the prince, and unable to fight back well. Harry’d have to find a way to fit in with the rebels while he scored the building for Nick. He had a simple idea of the layout of the building, and it seemed to be a symmetrical blueprint.

     The only way to fit in would be to get clothes-walking around in underwear would probably raise some eyebrows. And a hat was a necessity-his curly locks would give him away immediately. He’s gotten the first part of his plan down when the tangy smell of flour reaches his nose. He looks down to see what the guard had tossed him.

     There’s just a normal cube of bread, the cheap, non nutritious kind that most royals would never even think about touching, but Harry had in several desperate occasions. When you’re starving, everything tastes good. There’s a metal canteen, too, dented and slightly bent. Harry can feel the water slosh inside as he shakes it experimentally, and the gnaw of hunger starts to be noticeable. The bread rises unpleasant memories of do-or-die moments.

* * *

      _The hunger feels like a wild animal, clawing him inside out. It’s got vicious talons raking his lower stomach, and it burns. The ache starts in the middle and spreads out, starting to immobilize his limbs and raise bile. He’s thrown up a few times, and at this point, nothing comes out._

_It’s been days since he’s eaten, the only thing filling his stomach is the rainwater that seeped through cracks in the building he’s in. It’s an old, rotting wooden structure,  a box held together with planks and nails, that his father had put him in. There’s a storm outside, leaking into his little locked shelter, and there’s a layer of muddy water covering the ground._

_Harry almost fears of drowning, but the hunger makes his head empty and he can’t think strait. He doesn’t even remember what he did to be locked up in here, but it’s one of the last things on his mind. All that matters right now is that he’s in a small wooden box, barely big enough for him to stand up or stretch out his arms. He’s close to dying, either from starvation or drowning, and nothing has ever been so painful._

_He can take blood, but this slow dying from inside out is five times worse. Hunger is his worst enemy, and it’s all he can think of as he huddles in the corner and dreams of food. He hasn’t seen the light in days, unable to escape his little cage, and too weak to break the wet wood._

_He’s closed his eyes and accepted defeat when he feels light. It burns his pale skin, but he can’t find the energy to open his eyes and see who it is. He slightly notices the fact that he’s completely dry, and then tries to pry open his eyes. Everything is blurry, but there’s a formidable figure towering over him._

_It takes a while for his senses to start working, and the first thing that he notices is the smell. It’s bread. He suddenly finds adrenaline in himself and his pulling himself up, stumbling forward in a desperate attempt to get to the food. He can faintly feel himself tear through it, but even in his hunger, he’s only able to finish the one slice before being unbelievably full._

_His knees have given out and he’s back on the floor, physically and mentally unable to move. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the figure, who wavers in and out of his vision, first just a person, then a man, then his… father._

_There’s a slight smirk on his face, and then Harry realizes what he must look like- the crown prince covered in dirt, too weak to move, eating like an animal. He recognizes the bread as the dried, cheap food that most poor villagers ate- it was easy to produce in mass, but extremely nutritious._

_As royalty, he’d only ever eaten the absolute best quality of food, but the one slice of bread was the most delicious thing he’d eaten. He’s musing his thoughts when his father turns and leaves, leaving the door open, and Harry realizes that it means he’s welcome to leave._

_He lies there for about an hour until the bread starts to kick in, and the hunger pains return. He works like a machine, standing up and staggering outside, heading straight for the cookhouse. The maids and cooks busy in the heated kitchens almost have a heart attack as they see their prince stumbling in, thin, dirty weak._

_They lead him to a small table in the corner of the room, loading plates of expensive, fancy food for him, and suddenly he’s surrounded by the one thing he had been wishing for and dreaming of. But for some reason, just the smell of it all made him want to throw up._

_“Bread, please. The stuff you guys eat.” He hears himself rasp out, and everyone in the kitchen freezes._

_“I-I’m sorry? What?” One of the cooks sputters, but Harry meets him with an even gaze, gripping the table tightly and trying to not pass out. He’d always told everyone to skip the manners, because they were all the same anyways, but sitting there in the stuff kitchen, starving, he wished that his words held more power and people would immediately get him something to eat._

_People started to unfreeze as the shock wore off, and then a slice of bread similar to the one he’d eaten earlier was given to him, and he’d dove straight in. Everyone was still staring at him, probably surprised that a royal would be eating the dry bread that they did. It must have been strange, seeing that he was just the same as them, but Harry really didn’t care- the bread was still the best thing he’d ever had._

_Once he’d finished, his head drooped down and he fell asleep under the heat of the ovens and the smell of expensive, wasteful food. When he woke, there was yet another slice of the bread, and Harry gratefully ate it. Over the next few weeks, he stayed in the kitchens and ate nothing but the bread, hiding from his father and recovering._

_It was strange, how he could recover so easily from a beating, but hunger would leave him weak for days. Eventually, things went back to normal, although Harry still would only eat the bread, and sometimes other things, when a concerned Nick forced something else into his diet. For some reason, he had a strong aversion to anything expensive, anything that his father ate, and he preferred to eat with the servants and cooks, half spoiled vegetables and cheap porridge._

_His father soon realized that starving him did so much more than bruises, and he regularly found himself in the wooden box, which soon turned into a specially made iron-barred cage. He’d go to the kitchen afterwards, and the people there would always have the bread ready if he’d been missing for a few days._

_He’d made a bond with those that worked in the kitchen, and the plain bread was his favorite thing to eat._

* * *

The bread is similar to the kind he’d eat at the castle, and it was almost bittersweet.He finishes it almost immediately before impulsively taking a huge swig from the canteen, regretting not saving any of the water for later. _This isn’t the castle,_ he chides himself, _you don’t have an endless supply._ But his throat is already feeling good, so he doesn’t really care too much. He rests, waiting for it to become darker, biding his time. He feels much better after a few hours, and sits up casually, waiting for his chance to escape.

     It comes just a little while later, in the form of the a patrolling guard. The rebels are on high security, and probably will be for the next few days, since he had just arrived, but it wouldn’t be enough to stop Harry. He stays quiet until the guard has rounded the corner and is nearing his cell. Right before the boy-he couldn’t be older than eighteen-is about to pass him, Harry pretends to keel over, gasping loudly.

     It immediately catches the guard’s attention, who freezes and stares at him like a deer cornered by a hunter. He seems torn between staying and finding someone that could help, but Harry needs to make sure the guard doesn’t attract attention. He continues to groan in pain, wrapping his arms around his torso, and tries to get back up from his slumped position.

     “Sorry,” Harry gasped and turns to his side. “Ju-just and old wound,” he continues through gritted teeth, “It sometimes-ah-hurts. I just need to sit up,” He pretends to try and scramble to a sitting position but fails. The scars and burns help with his story, and the guard seems to decide that it would be easier to just help him.

     The guard uses a set of keys hanging on his hip open the door. Harry grins inwardly as he hears the _click_ and scratching noises as the door is unlocked and opened. Then the guard is grabbing his forearm and dragging him up. He’s tense, looking worried and probably wanting it to be over. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to be doing this, but he is more scared of being blamed for anything that happens to Harry than the danger of the prince.

     “Thanks, mate,” Harry murmurs softly once he’s up, and the guard grunts before turning to leave. That’s when Harry strikes.

     He’s on his feet, and a solid punch to the side of the head causes the guard to immediately topple over. Harry feels a slight regret, because the guard has done nothing wrong, but stays focused on his task. It’s easy for him to strip the guard of his ratty uniform, and changes before dragging the unconscious body to the shadows, so that anybody just passing by wouldn’t recognize the guard. The specific guard that he chose has a hat, and he takes it off, pulling it over his head so that none of his hair is showing.

     The rebels don’t have enough money for full uniforms, so the shirt and pants are slightly small on him, but clean enough. Harry knows that he’s not exactly inconspicuous, so he has to move fast. After he’s ready, he takes a deep breath and pushes his shoulders back before stepping out into the hallway and striding down the passage.

     The best way to not be questioned is to seem confident and look like you’re doing something, so Harry keeps his head up, heart pounding in his chest, as he continues down the hallway. He passes two young girls chatting with each other, both with heavy swords, but thankfully, they don’t even cast a curious glance over at him as he walks by. They must have neither seen him earlier, with Louis. He rounds the next corner and keeps his eyes forward, glancing side to side every once in awhile, looking for Nick.

     He finds him halfway down the hall, huddled against the bars, a half scowl on his face. Harry stops in front of it and Nick looks up in shock.

     “Harry.” His voice is quiet, but Harry still looks around carefully, making sure no one heard it. The hallway is still deserted, and he lets out a sigh of relief before turning back to the cage. He fumbles with the keys for a while before he gets the right one and the door creaks open. Nick scrambles to his feet and Harry steps in, grabbing both arms and tugging him forward.

     “Play along,” He murmurs in Nick’s ear, before manhandling him forward. He’s just gotten through the the cell and closed the door when a man rounds the corner.

     “Hey, what are you doing?” The voice echoes through the hallway and Harry’s mind screams in frustration. Instead, he replies,

     “The co-captain, Louis, wants him, sir,” Harry hopes that Louis’ name would be enough to get the man off his case.

     Harry’s good at reading people, and this man, probably around fifty or so, seems like the kind of guy that expects respect from others, and hates breaking the rules. Harry desperately wishes that the man would leave, but on the outside, he’s impassive. He levels his gaze to the man, chin up and his eyes forward.

     “That’s Tomlinson to you, boy,” The man replies gruffly, still suspicious. Harry has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling at the name. _Louis Tomlinson. Hah._

     That’s when Nick makes a move. He jumps forward, as though to escape, and Harry’s grip slips. Then, he’s immediately taking a step forward and grabbing the back of Nick’s shirt, pretending to rough him up a bit and manhandle him until Nick is on the ground, hands pulled back. His heart feels like it’s about to explode-although Nick is ‘playing along’, one wrong move could mess the entire thing up. He glances at the man, who is still standing there, surprised to see him nod with approval.

     “Very good. It usually takes three grown men to hold that one back. I’m glad to see that there’s at least one capable rebel here. Good luck with him.” With a another quick nod, the man continues down the hallway, and Harry and Nick are alone again.

     They waste no time getting back up, hurrying towards the back entrance. Harry had seen it earlier, and guesses that the horses are tied up in the back, because Liam had taken the carriage that way. The girls are gone, which makes Harry extremely relieved, and they’re able to slip into the cool night air.

     Harry was correct-there’s a large brown stable situated right behind the building, and faint whinnying comes from it. They head in that direction, staying in the shadows. There’s no one around, and Harry thanks his lucky stars for it. Right as they push open the door and step inside the strong stench of hay, they run into the stable boy. Harry’s fast reactions save them, his fist knocking into his temple before the boy can scream. It’s the second time Harry’s knocked someone out in the last hour, but he pushes the guilt down.

     They step over the fallen body, and chose the horse nearest to them. It’s a brown mare, nervously eyeing them but still calm. Harry steps forward slowly, being careful to not freak her out. Her ears are straight up, twitching slightly, but aren’t flattened, and he takes it as a good sign. He stretches out a hand and lets the horse sniff it. She’s still calm, and he’s extremely glad that he managed to chose a calm one. Harry knows that he needs the horse to trust them in order to let Nick ride her, and moves forward to meet her.

     He pauses for a second, letting the horse get accustomed to him, before stepping towards the side, running his hand across her shoulders for a while. The horse is starting to get used to the two strangers, and Harry decides to finish the greeting, stepping back to the front. He blows gently on the mare’s nose, letting out a delighted grin as the horse blows back. He’d always loved horses, although he never had one himself, and this horse was beautiful.

     He motions for Nick to come closer and hurries him through the steps. He doesn’t know how long it’s going to take the rebels to notice that one of them is missing. Harry hopes that he will be able to slip back inside without anyone noticing and give Nick the entire night to escape, but he’s not going to take the chances, just in case they do realize.

     Nick has finished, and turns and hugs Harry tightly.

     “Be careful, yeah? Don’t do anything stupid.” He warns him, and Harry just grins back. The man was one of the closest people he had, and the thought that he may never meet him again makes the smile slip off.

     “Good luck. You be careful, too, okay? Get back to your family.” He replies before hugging him again.

     And then Nick is leading the horse out, swinging onto it, and disappearing into the night. Harry stands there, listening to the thundering hooves and squinting at the fading silhouette until the darkness swallows it completely. He lets out a deep breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding, before turning to head back to the building.

     There’s a commotion that Harry starts to hear as he nears the back, and the jumbled words arranged into sentences of panic that happen to include _Prince_ and _escaped_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	10. If I Could Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry doesn’t know why he’s here, in this man’s arms, laughing with him. They’re supposed to be enemies. They’re supposed to hate each other. Hell, less that twenty minutes ago, they were trying to kill each other. Harry doesn’t know what, how, or why it happened, but to be completely honest, he doesn’t really care either.  
> All that really matters is this moment, as Harry grips his shirt tighter and slightly leans against his shoulder, looking at the way the man’s lips moved, the way the quirked up when Harry said something particularly funny, how the melodious laugh that comes out of them makes him so happy.  
> The whole thing seems like a dream, like Harry will wake up any second, and nothing will have actually happened. But it isn’t, and so he just smiles and laughs, in a daze, slightly confused but still happy nonetheless.

     The first thought that runs through his mind is _please don’t catch Nick._

     The second is _shit_ , followed by a string of cuss words. He’s still facing the building, his feet feeling like blocks of ice, unable to move. There’s a huge amount of commotion, yelling, and people are starting to spill out of the building. He doesn’t even care if he get’s captured, but he needs Nick to be free.

     The amount of rebels seems to be endless, more and more shadows pouring into the dark night, pushing each other as they scramble for their weapons, starting to wake up. The despair is starting to sink in, and Harry knows that there’s no way that he could hold back that many people.

     “Everybody, stop!” A very familiar voice rings out. It’s Louis. The voice is sharp and commanding, and Harry feels himself freeze, too. “Get back inside. I’ll deal with this.” There’s a few mutterings, but no one seems to want to leave the chase.

     “This could easily be an attack.” Louis sounds urgent and slightly annoyed. “I need everyone inside, now, while I scout the area and bring Prince back.” That seems to get everyone’s attention and agreement, and people start to head back in. Harry unfreezes, too, and tries to take a step backwards, but his ankle gives out and he collapses.

     His broken ankle throbs painfully, going from barely noticeable to excruciating in seconds. Before, Harry hadn’t even remembered that he’d broken it, too busy trying to get Nick out, but now that the excitement is over, the numbness receded. His lip is bleeding, too, as he bit it sharply when he fell.

     The splint that one of the boys had put on it had helped tremendously-the piece of wood supported Harry’s ankle, and he was able to walk mostly without flaw, but the pain now prevented him from doing so. The first flare of pain is starting to disappear, and Harry takes a deep breath before trying to stand up.

     He is barely able to stay up straight, his knees wobbling with exhaustion. He can see the now lone figure of Louis still standing near the back entrance of the building, unmoving. He’s probably trying to decide the best way to hunt Harry down, and he knows that he doesn’t have much time before Louis sees him.

     Harry tries to take a step forward, but his leg immediately gives out again, and he finds himself on his knee. Without further ado, starts crawling. He knows that it’s futile to try and stand, but he still needs to get as much distance between him and Louis as possible.

     He heads towards the line of trees that start the forest in the back. The building is literally in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by and expansive forest, and Harry is hoping that if he can make it into the trees, he’d be able to climb one or do something to shake off his trail.

     It’s a slow and painful journey, but Harry makes it. When he looks back, he can see Louis checking out the barn, followed by a shout. He must have found the unconscious body of the stable boy. Hopefully it would give Harry some more time.

     The ground changes from soft grass to brittle leaves and tree roots. Harry drags himself forward, not even worrying about covering his tracks. Every once in awhile, he changes his path slightly, trying to throw off anyone that may see the trail he’s leaving behind.

     It’s been at least twenty minutes, but Harry doesn’t dare to stop. He knows that he probably hasn’t even gotten a mile in, and he needs more distance, especially with his injured leg. Every once in awhile, he looks back, to make sure that no one is following him.

     One of the times that he does, he sees the form of a man just a few yards away. It’s Louis. Harry almost has a heart attack and immediately crawls to the side, around a tree, before using the wood to pull himself up. He balances on one leg as he maneuvers himself so that he can peer over the side.

     Louis is obviously tracking the trail that Harry left. He keeps going, slow but steady, nearing where Harry is hiding. He’s reached the end of the tracks, pausing and inspecting the way the trail cuts off. He tilts his head to the side, noticing that the tracks suddenly turn to the left, and realizes a second too late that Harry must have turned.

     He’s leaping on Louis’ back right before he can make the connection of where Harry had went. His aim is the knife that Louis is holding loosely in his hand, unexpecting the attack. Harry manages to swipe the blade away before using Louis’ body to push himself away, landing in a roll and ending up a few yards away. Then he’s back on his feet, trying not to show that he’s injured.

     He keeps the knife up, ready for any unexpected moves, but unable to do anything else. Louis, however, does not seem panicked at all. He’s completely calm, keeping his eyes focused on Harry and his arms relaxed at his sides.

     There’s a moment of complete silence before Louis makes his move. He attacks from the side, slamming into Harry before he can take a shot with the knife, and they end up in a small skirmish. Harry’s on the ground, with Louis on top of him. He’s managed to grab both of his wrists, the knife laying forgotten, and is struggling to hold Louis in place.

     In desperate attempt to finish the fight, he rolls over so that Louis is under him, and grabs the knife before placing it lightly on his throat. They’re both breathing heavily, and Louis glares up at him defiantly.

     But for some reason, he can’t bring himself to slice his throat. It would be so easy to just kill him and leave him there, to have the rebels find his dead body in the morning. But he hesitates, unable to actually do it.

     Louis takes that moment to knee Harry in the stomach. His grip loosens on the knife and Louis takes the chance to push him off. Harry lands heavily on his side, and suddenly their roles are switched. Louis is straddling Harry, placing the cold knife on his throat.

     Harry closes his eyes and waits for the sharp pain, knowing that he was as good as dead now. But then suddenly, the weight is off of him, and Louis is standing up and backing away. Harry cranes his neck, looking up in confusion at Louis’ unreadable expression. His body is limp, all of the fight having fled.

     “Don’t fight and I’ll let Nick escape.” Louis speaks, and Harry just stares at him. He doesn’t understand how Louis knows that all he wants is for Nick to get away.

     “I’m not an idiot, you know. I’ve seen the way you look at him.” Louis’ voice is slightly bitter as he interrupts his thoughts.

     “The way I look at him?” Harry repeats, still in shock.

     “It’s obvious you care about him.” Louis’ voice seems to get crueler.

     “Yes. I care about him.” Harry smiles as he thinks about Nick. His mind is short circuiting, and he can’t seem to think straight. “Nick is great.”

     “You must really love him,” Louis sneers.

     “I do. I really do.” Harry grins dopily, blinking at the angry figure in front of him. “He’s like the father I never had.” _Don’t tell him anything, you idiot!_ His mind is screaming at him, but he ignores it. Right now, he feels similar to the way he did when he was drunk.

     “Father figure?” Suddenly, Louis seems confused, but it may just be Harry. His vision is a bit blurry, after all.

     “Yep,” Harry replies, popping the P. “Like a father. He’s really nice,” he adds.

     “Wait, you’re not- you’re not, like,” Louis is stuttering now. _It’s really different from mean, confident Louis,_ Harry thinks. He likes this confused Louis better. He’s nicer.

     “You’re really blurry. Am I alive. I think I’m alive.” Harry raises his hand to pinch himself. “Ow! Yeah, I’m alive.” He rubs his arm, which now has a pink mark.

     “Right…” Louis is now hesitant. He seems to have a lot of emotions. First scary, then angry, then confused, and now nervous. “Well, do you agree?”

     “Agree? Agree with what?” Harry racks his brain for what he could possibly be agreeing to, then remembers Louis’ proposal. “Oh yeah! Yes, I do, I do. Leave Nick alone, he’s got a family at home. I wanted for him to get to his family.”

     “A family.” Louis repeats. He seems to have the tendency to repeat what Harry is saying.

     “Yep, a wife and two kids.” Harry smiles, thinking about how nice Nick and Abbey and their family was.

     “A wife.” _Maybe Louis is confused,_ Harry thinks. _He’s repeating a lot of things._

     “Yeah. And two kids.” Harry explains so that Louis isn’t confused.

     “Alright.” Louis shakes his head and seems to snap out of his daze. “I’m taking you back, then.” He sheathes his knife before stepping closer and scooping Harry up. It reminds him of earlier, when he was carried to his cell.

     Louis starts the journey home, effortlessly carrying Harry in his arms. Harry is still limp, his thoughts in a jumble, and he can’t think clearly. It’s completely silent as they make their way back, and slowly, the cool night air helps Harry’s mind clear up.

     It’s slightly awkward and tense, neither of them with anything to say. The embarrassment starts to flood in, as Harry realizes that their earlier conversation was quite strange, because Harry was acting completely drunk, and Louis was- well, Harry didn’t have any idea why Louis was acting so strange about Nick.

     It was almost nice, being carried, although Harry would never admit it. He was exhausted, and his ankle was extremely thankful that there was no pressure on it.

     “I didn’t mean earlier, you know?” Louis’ voice is soft beside his ear, and Harry frowns, confused. “I was just mad. I’m sorry.” His voice is curt, and it takes Harry a second for it to sink in.

     “What?”

     “Don’t make me repeat it.” Louis’ voice has a sense of finality to it, and Harry wisely keeps his mouth shut. They continue on in silence as his mind races. He’s obviously talking about the crude threat from earlier, but Harry doesn’t understand why he’s apologizing.

     It was mean and Harry will admit, slightly scary, but it’s nothing less than he deserved for being the prince. _Captive,_ Harry reminds himself. _You’re a captive, not a friend._ He needs to remember that-it’s when he doesn’t that he steps over the line and pisses Louis off. And he definitely doesn’t want to do that.

     He seriously underestimated this boy before. At first glance, he seemed like nothing, but after seeing the way he fought, it was obvious that Louis was not someone to mess with. He is slightly amazed at Louis’ strength, too-he doesn’t seem to be showing any exhaustion from carrying Harry.

     Louis knows how to fight well- but he also knows when to stop. He was absolutely vicious with his words, and yet now he’s apologizing. Who was this boy? What had happened to Louis for him to act like this?

     Harry feels so much more confused, hundreds of questions popping into his head. He knows that now is not the right time to be bothering Louis, who still looks furious, but he can’t help the question that slips out of his mouth.

     “Why?” He says it quietly, hoping to not piss Louis off. Not seeing him angry ever again would still be too soon.

     “No one deserves that, not even you,” Louis’ voice is suddenly soft, a 180 turn from how he was earlier. They’re both skirting around the sensitive topic, unable to put it to words.

     “Maybe I do,” Harry replies, suddenly feeling upset at Louis’ sureness. “You don’t know me. Maybe I kill baby animals or something.”

     “You still wouldn’t deserve it.” Louis sounds so certain, and Harry scowls at him.

     “What about all of the baby animals? Don’t they deserve some sort of vengeance?” Harry doesn’t even know why he’s making such a silly argument.

     “Are you saying that you do kill baby animals?” Louis sounds amused, and Harry can’t help the pleased smile that spreads across his face.

     “You never know.” He says, furtively arguing his case. “Maybe I do. Maybe I’m a psychopath that likes blood and killing people,”

     “Sweetheart, you couldn’t even stab me. I think that shows something.”

     “I’m not sweet and I don’t have a heart! I’m a psychopath, remember?” Harry doesn’t know when it changed from enemy to ally, but he really doesn’t mind. The tense are around them is starting to disapparate since the apology, and Harry finds himself forgiving Louis.

     He is starting to grin slightly, relaxing in Louis’ arms. Sure, it was still awkward, but there’s a mutual acceptance on either side, and Harry is extremely happy that Louis isn’t some sort of monster. Their conversation has shown him that Louis is, in fact, a human being. Maybe his stay actually won’t be that bad.

     The rebel building starts to come into view. It’s just a massive square standing out in the darkness, completely still. It’s as though there’s no life in it, and it’s just a large, soulless statue. They’re about a hundred meters away from it when Louis stops walking. They stand there is silence, both looking up at the building, Harry with apprehension, and Louis with pride.

     “Built it with me own hands,” Louis suddenly says, and Harry looks up at him. There’s a slight smile on his face.

     “Must not be an architect, then,” Harry says in a teasing tone. “Who even makes a building like that? It’s literally just a big square hallway with rooms.”

     “Well, I thought it was ingenious,” Louis sniffs at him, and Harry is letting out a sigh of relief that he didn’t know he was holding, glad that Louis could take a joke.

     “And why is that? Because I’m pretty sure a square isn’t all that smart.”

     “It’s very fun to play tag in,” Louis replies in a straight voice, completely serious.

     There’s a pause before they both burst out into laughter, and then they’re suddenly equals, just two lads sharing a kind-of joke. Harry decides that he likes it better when Louis smiles. He’s relaxed and happy, instead of glaring or frowning. Louis’ laugh is soft and light but pronounced, each _ha_ sounding by itself. It’s actually quite endearing.

     “I’ll be the judge of that,” Harry giggles at him. “Personally, I don’t think that running in circles is fun,”

     “It is. Trust me, I’m the master of running in circles.”

     “Well, I’m the master of straight lines, then,”

     “No, you’re not. You were literally just running in some weird zig zag pattern.”

     “I was crawling, so it doesn’t count! Besides, normally when I’m running, I’m not being chased by some twink with a knife.”

     “I’ll show you a twink, kid!”

     Suddenly, they’re  wrestling (kind of?), although Louis is extremely careful with Harry’s broken ankle. He’s still confused at the sudden change from mean to nice, but he’s definitely not going to complain. Harry eventually finds himself pinned down by Louis, looking up at his narrowed blue eyes.

     “Twink, twink twink!” Harry chants. “I’m, like, a foot taller than you.”

     “No, you are very much not!” Louis protests.

     “I’m five-eleven. You’re, like, four feet tall!” Harry doesn’t know what comes over him, but he starts laughing. It’s strange, how suddenly their relationship has changed. Less than an hour before, Louis was the most formidable rebel he’d met, but now, seeing Louis smile and laugh and _be human,_ Harry’s thoughts on him changed completely.

     “Five-nine,” Louis’ voice rips him from his thoughts.

     “Hm?”

     “I’m five-nine.” Louis’ lip is curled defiantly, and Harry stares at him for a second before bursting into another wave of laughter.

     “Five nine?” He splutters out. “You, five nine?” Harry’s cackle rises at the unamused face above him.

     “Yes, five-nine.”

     “If you’re five-nine, I’m ten feet!” Harry retorts humorously, and ignores Louis’ protest. “Five-nine,” He repeats. “That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard!”

     “Because it’s not a lie!” Louis defends himself. They spend a good ten minutes arguing over Louis height, but it’s cut off as Louis picks him up and throws him over his shoulder.

     “Hey!” Harry’s now the one protesting.

     “This five-nine man is now picking you up and demanding that the prisoner stays quiet,” Louis announces. Harry replies by kicking out and wiggling, trying to escape his grip.

     “This fine-eleven _man_ demands that the four foot _boy_ releases him!”

     “This five-nine _man_ demands that the _boy_ stops making unnecessary noises.” Louis says gaily before letting go and dropping him, _again_ , and Harry groans as his back hits the ground.

     “Alright, down to business.” Louis says, suddenly serious. “We need to head back.”

     “Or we could escape and run away into the sunset,” Harry offers as he scrambles to a standing position, balancing on his uninjured foot. Louis ignores him and continues,

     “When we get inside, I’m going to need you to stay quiet and keep your head down. Everyone’s going to be pissed at you, but I’ll try to stop them from doing anything bad.”

     “Alright.” Harry nods in agreement. “And onto another important part of business, why are you being nice to me?” Harry is curious. He doesn’t understand why Louis has changed, and although it is nice to be treated normally, he wants to know why. It’s not as though he’s done something extremely good, in fact, he literally just tried to escape.

     “I’m making up for all the bad things I’ve done in life,” Louis smirks at him sassily. “Fixing karma or something,” Harry pretends to frown.

     “So I’m just an experiment for you? I never actually meant anything to you except a stepping stone so that you can have a better afterlife? And here I thought that we were true friends! I’m injured, twink.” Harry pauses dramatically, placing his hand on his heart and jutting out his bottom lip.

     “Exactly, psycho.” Louis nods. “Think about how good it would look for the rebel captain to take pity on the poor prince. It’s a perfect plan.”

     “Except that you have to keep is a secret. You can’t tell anyone that we’re friends because you’d be shunned.”

     “Very smart, young Prince. We shall call it Operation Secret Friends, SF for short.”

     “Operation SoFa!” Harry says excitedly. “We can call it SoFa for short!” Louis looks at him weirdly, but doesn’t argue.

     “Very well. Operation SoFa shall commence, starting…” He pauses for dramatic effect, “...now.” Harry suppresses his grin, getting into his act, falling to his knees before mock crying,

     “Please spare my life, you cruel man! I’m just a poor prince that’s been kidnapped!”

     “Be quiet, peasant!” Louis declares. “We are most definitely _not_ friends or equals. You do not address me directly!”  Then his posture changes.

     “Alright, good practice. We’re ready to go. Play along, yeah?” Louis’ words reminded Harry of Nick, and Harry stops the frown that threatens to show. He replaces his sadness with a cheeky wink, and allows Louis to gently pull his wrists back, making a show of struggling.

     “Stop it, psycho! You’re like a slimy frog or something, I can’t get a good grip on you.” Harry gasps, offended.

     “I am not a frog!”

     “Yes, you are. Even your smile looks like a frog!”

     “No it doesn’t!” Louis just stares at him, unyielding in his opinion.

     “Fine! But if I’m a frog, you’re a hedgehog.” Louis raises an eyebrow.

     “You’re small and prickly. By the way, I kill baby hedgehogs. I’m a psychopath, remember?” Louis laughs at that, throwing his head back as his eyes crinkle in the corners. Harry smiles, too, delighted that he made Louis laugh.

     “Good thing I’m not a baby, then,”

     “Well, you’re definitely not an adult,” Harry replies. “I could easily be planning on killing you right now.

     “Whatever you say, you psycho frog.”

     “Whatever you say, you twinky hedgehog.” Harry imitates him, crossing his arms and trying to be formidable. Louis just smiles softly and directs him towards the building. Harry has trouble keeping the smile off his face-it’s strangely natural to talk with Louis.

     They walk in silence, towards the entrance. Well, it’s more like Harry stumbling and tripping while Louis guides him. His foot is screaming with pain, and Harry wants to just flop over and sleep.

     “Fuck, I change my mind. You’re not a frog, you’re a newborn deer.”

     “It’s not my fault that I have long legs,” Harry protests, and Louis is about to reply, but they’re at the door, and then it’s tense.

     “Alright, game face.” Louis whispers, and he opens the door, his grip on Harry’s wrists tightening. Harry keeps his head down, but he can’t help himself as he takes a quick upward glance.

     There’s a large crowd of people waiting inside, with either disapproving or downright hateful faces. It’s completely silent as Louis closes and locks the door. Liam and Niall are the first to move, stepping up and taking Harry out of Louis’ grip.

     “Captain, Grimshaw is gone-” One rebel speaks up before being interrupted by Louis.

     “-I know.” His voice is sharp and cold again, completely different from before.

     It’s silent again, no one daring to speak, before someone in the back pipes up,

     “What are we going to do with him?” The question seems to open up the conversation, and suddenly they are flooded with suggestions. None of them are really that bad, but one person yells, louder than the others,

     “I say that we beat the fight out of him.” He shouts. “Teach him a lesson or two.”

     “You touch him, and it’ll be the last thing you do.” Louis’ voice could slice through rock.

     “Why? Don’t say that you’re going easy on him because he’s just a kid. He’s still part of the monarchy.” The man curls his lip in disgust at Harry. Harry just drops his head and presses his lips together, staring at the ground.

     “I’m the one in charge. I decide what happens. The general wants him unharmed, so we are not touching him.” Louis sneers, and then his hand is flat on Harry’s back, pushing his forward. They navigate through the crowd, all of the rebels parting to create a path for them. Harry leans against Louis heavily, and he can hear Liam and Niall following them.

     They make it through the crowd, and back towards Harry’s cell, but once they reach it, Louis makes no move to open the door.

     “Change of plans, lads.” Louis says. “Harry’s coming home with us. He can’t stay here, they’ll kill him.”

     “Are you sure?” Niall’s voice is suspicious.

     “Yes. I’m sure my mum won’t mind.”

     “Alright. How are we going to get there?”

     “We’ll borrow some horses. You guys can take your own, I’ll carry Princey.”

     The words don’t sink into Harry. He just collapses on the ground, groaning with the pain in his ankle. Dark spots start to dance along the edges of his vision. Adrenaline had kept him running for the past few days, but now that it was starting to disappear, he was aware of his hunger, thirst, and aching pain across his entire body.

     The fire hadn’t done any good, nor had his father’s bruises. His body was weak, stick thin and frail. He slumps down, ignoring the panicked voices above him, and blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	11. I'd Be Coming Right Back Home To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the girls-hell, even the babies-have blue eyes. They range from a dark, sea-greenish color to the light blue in the sky, bright and dull, warm and cold, but all attentive and curious. They’re gorgeous, of course, but there’s a nagging feeling in the back of his head, saying, 'Louis’ are prettier'.

_      Happy. Sad. Good. Bad. _

_      The words were carved delicately, carefully, with Harry’s sharp knife. He made sure to loop and cross every word, writing legibly and cleanly. Zayn’s warm hand was on his shoulder, calming him. _

_      Zayn always was the thoughtful, artistic type. It was his idea to come out at midnight, to the back of the tree where they met.  _ **_The tree is our future, and the roots are our past, see? So down here is bad, but up here is good,_ ** _ he explained, pointing in turn to the ground and then the trunk of the tree. Harry nodded with agreement. _

**_We put good words here, and bad words here,_ ** _ Zayn continued.  _ **_Then we can get rid of the bad words, cos they’re just in the ground. It’s kind of like a story, except one that we can change._ ** _ And so here they were, carving words into the soft wood and the softer ground. _

_      Escape. _

_      The word sends tingles down Harry’s back. It’s a mixture of fear, anticipation, worry, and excitement, but an untouchable and impossible idea. He and Zayn had thought of it, time and time again, but they both knew that it would be impossible. He flashes Zayn a grin before carving it carefully into the trunk of the tree. _

_      Hopelessness. _

_      Now, that was a word that they could both understand. He definitely knew that it was one from their past, one that they would want to erase. He kneels down and adds it to the list on the ground, before smiling with satisfaction and standing up, brushing his hands off. _

_      Mother. Gemma. Food. Smiling. Laughing. Oceans. Forests. Rain. The tree seems to grow with every word as the two boys create the future that they want. _

_      Father. Prince. King. Monarchy. Blood. Fighting. Yelling. Hunger. The dirt is covered in words from their past, all of the hurtful things that had happened to them, all of the painful memories. The two boys work diligently, and soon the tree and dirt are filled. _

_      It’s almost sad, how their entire lives can be created through just a handful of words. It makes them feel minuscule, small, just another player in the game that is life. The sun starts to rise, the first flickers of light filling the horizon as Zayn and Harry finish their masterpiece. _

_      “We destroy the unwanted, yeah?” Zayn murmured in his ears, kicking  the dirt over the carved words in the ground. Harry followed, and together, they scuffed and blurred up the bad in their lives, their roots and their pasts, and let the positivity nurture their futures. _

* * *

 

Harry wakes up to loud, obnoxious voices. his head is ringing and everything is fuzzy. It’s almost funny, how often he’s been passing out in the past few days, but he’s starting to get tired of it. His ankle hurts more than before, his stomach is growling at him, and his eyes refuse to cooperate, so he just lays there, closing his eyes, and listens. He can recognize Niall’s irish drawl, and he’s pretty certain that the other voice is Liam. He can’t distinguish the words themselves, so he just lets the sounds wash over him.

Then a girl’s voice pipes up. It’s unrecognizable, but obviously very young. Then another one joins in, then another, then another, until Harry’s ears are filled with a hundred high pitched voices. They bring in a headache, and Harry groans as they infiltrate his brain with their clamouring.

It goes completely silent after that, and Harry realizes that they must have heard him. He only gets one moment of relief, before everyone is yelling-  _ He’s awake, mum, the prince is awake! What should we do? I heard him, I swear I just heard him!  _ Harry lays there, listening to the bustle of the army of little girls, before cracking open his eyes and looking around. 

He’s in a plain bedroom, with normal wooden walls. The bed that he is currently on is pretty small, with rough cotton sheets and a homemade pillow. There’s almost nothing else in the room, save for a desk, chair, and the torches on the walls.

He whips his head to the side when Liam and Niall step into the room, but immediately regrets it. His neck is stiff, and he suddenly feels extremely light headed. 

They stand awkwardly at the doorway, not coming in, but just staring at Harry. He stares back in turn, struggling to get into a sitting position. The blanket that was tucked up to his neck pools down to his waist, and when he looks down, he realizes that he’s naked.  _ Again. _

There’s bandages wrapped all over his torso, and he feels unnaturally clean, so he suspects that they had given him a bath. Running his fingers through his hair confirms his guess- it’s soft and curly, completely different from the tangled bird's nest that used to be there. He flushes with embarrassment as he realized that someone must have not only ran him a bath while he was unconscious, but also brushed his hair.

“You gave me a bath while I was unconscious.” He directs his attention to the two men in the doorway. It’s not a question, just a fact, stated with complete disbelief. “You literally gave me a bath.” He repeats it again, as it starts to sink in.

“Well… I didn’t. Louis did.” Liam immediately defends his honor and throws his friend under the bus. Niall nods with agreement.

“Louis gave me a bath.” Harry seems to be unable to say anything else. “Louis gave me a bath and brushed my hair and bandaged me up.” Harry bites his lip to keep his jaw from dropping in shock.

“I mean,” Liam hesitates for a second before continuing, “Louis gave you a bath and Fizzie brushed your hair and Niall and Louis’ mum bandaged you.”

“Fizzie? Louis’s mum? Where am I and who are they?” He asks, and then all of his memories rush back at him.  _ Change of plans. Harry’s coming home with us. He can’t stay here, they’ll kill him. _ Harry’s mouth opens up but no sound comes out as he remembers.  _ Don’t fight me. You’re the prisoner. Do as I say. _ His eyes are wide with shock, little gasps leaving him.  _ Come back with me and I’ll let Nick escape.  _ They keep coming, like a scene from an act, one by one.  _ I’m sorry. _

And holy shit, they were real. It wasn’t just a dream. He had literally called Louis a twinky porcupine. What the fuck was wrong with him?

“I, uh, I…” Harry mumbles. His eyes are bugging out, he can tell, and his face probably looks comedic. “I’m at Louis’.” It makes sense, after what he had said earlier, and ‘Louis’ mum’. Harry latches onto the only reasonable thought.

“I’m at Louis’.” He repeats.  _ And I’m not tied up. And I’m not hurt. And what kind of alternate universe is this?  _ He doesn’t say it, though, instead, he just stares up at Liam and Niall, and they stare back, and Harry doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Yes.” Niall agrees with Harry’s statement, and then it goes quiet again. They’re both shifting on their feet, and the air is tense and awkward.

“Well… how are you feeling?” Liam asks.  _ Small talk. Right. I can do this. _

“Fine.” Harry replies, but there’s no lead on the conversation, and it goes silent. Harry bites his lower lip and looks down at his hands, which are clasped tightly together. Liam and Niall suddenly find the ceiling and floor extremely interesting. There really isn’t anything to say, not after all that’s happened.

Suddenly, a woman bustles into the room, holding a tray of fresh oven-baked bread and a canteen. A large group of young girls follows her, and the murmurs of chatter and giggling immediately fill the air. The unknown woman is coming nearer and nearer, and Harry tenses with every step. She’s now beside him, and drops the tray down onto the bedside table with a bang. 

The loud noise startles Harry, and he immediately jumps with shock before scooting backwards and pulling the blanket with him. The woman herself does not seem that threatening- she has a narrow face, puffy lips and wide blue eyes. She looks like someone that Harry knows, but he can’t place where.

She’s humming happily, organizing the things on the tray, before looking up. That’s when she notices how Harry’s bundled up in blankets, perched on the corner of the bed, with his long curly hair poking out and wide green eyes. Immediately, a worried, motherly expression crosses her face, and she’s stepping forward.

Harry tries to lean further away. He knows that he’s silly, being scared of this seemingly harmless woman, but there’s a bigger, more animalistic side of him that is currently taking control. The woman is already right by the small bed, and Harry is trying to put distance between them. He’s still slumping backwards, but leans too far, and falls.

Although usually very agile, he’s wrapped up in blankets and lands heavily. His limbs are effectively pinned to his sides, and he struggles to get out from the layers of cloth that he stupidly rolled around himself. He’s unable to move properly, and makes jerked movements that are held back.

He gives up a moment later, realizing that it’s futile to try and escape, and curls up with embarrassment. There was a shocked gasp in unison by everyone in the room, but now, it’s filled with little giggles and titters. His cheeks are filling with pink, he knows. He’s always been a heavy blusher, and this moment brought out the rosy color.

“Damn it.” He groans, starting to feel suffocated. A second later, twenty “ _ language!” ‘ _ s chime out, followed by  _ there’s young children in this room!  _ and Harry snaps his mouth shut. He’s now utterly confused- what’s wrong with the word ‘damn it’, and what do children have to do with it?

But the phrase is familiar, and he racks his brain for the memory.  _ Language! Not around the kids! Don’t cuss in front of them!  _ And then they all come back, in his mother’s voice. Every time his father cussed, he would get in trouble.

But that was back when his mother was alive and his father was normal.

Harry is too caught up in his memory to realize that he’s being lifted back up, blanket and all. His foot is starting to hurt, though, but he obediently keeps his mouth shut, careful to stop curse words from coming out.

He doesn’t even realize that his eyes are closed, but he opens them and is met by a pair of bright blue eyes that are shining humorously. It’s Niall, and, once again, he’s being carried. Niall drops him softly back on the bed, The blankets are now loose, and Harry is able to yank them off. If glares could kill, the pieces of rough cotton would be a smouldering pile of ashes.

He feels so much better now that the sheets are off and his body can breathe, but they’re suddenly yanked back up over his head. He immediately shoves them off and growls indignantly with protest, but comes face to face with Niall’s laughing face.

“Scandalous,” He jokes, before wiggling his eyebrows in a strange manner, and although it is quite funny, Harry is more confused than before. Niall seems to catch on, because he adds,

“There’s young ladies in this room, Prince! I thought they taught you manners in court.” Then Harry remembers the army of girls and rolls over to look at them, making sure to keep the blankets over his scarred chest.

So there’s not quite twenty, but it’s close enough. There’s two teens, two kids, and two babies. The small crowd is bunched near the doorway, staring and laughing. At him.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid. What sort of king gets tangled in blankets and falls off a bed?  _ Harry hits himself mentally.  _ You complete idiot. _

But they all seem to be having fun ridiculing him, he pouts slightly. It’s the first time he’s seen so many young girls in one place, and with all honesty, he has absolutely no idea what to do. He’s used to abusive old men and young, slightly scared guards, along with servants and the occasional maid, but he’s never been close enough to talk or interact with them much.

And yet here he is, in a small stuffy room, filled with strangers. The closest person is probably Niall, since Liam seems to like glaring at him, but he has known Niall for a few days at most. He licks his lips and keeps quiet, waiting for something to happen.

“Sorry for the fright, dear. You must be Harry, right?” The woman from before says. She’s stepped back a few feet, letting Harry calm down. The smile she gives is painfully similar to his own mother, and he lets out a choked yes, blinking back bittersweet tears that came out of nowhere.

She offers him her palm, and he stares at the outstretched hand for a second.  _ It’s a handshake. You take the hand, and shake it.  _ His father’s voice filters through his thoughts, venomous and mocking.  _ Kings know how to do it, but it looks like you don’t. Not much of a king, huh? _

Harry fights off the intruding voice and shakily draws out his own hand, clumsily shaking it. He feels stupid for being emotional-he’s done handshakes plenty of times- practiced it, even, and he can’t even count the amount of noble’s hands he’s clasped already. But he’s always seen handshakes as a way to seal a treaty or deal, never like this. He’s never had anyone try to shake his hand to say  _ hi  _ or just as a greeting. But then again, he’s also never had the chance to learn how normal people live.

Harry withdraws back into his protection of blankets. He really isn’t enjoying the attention, although everyone else seems to be perfectly happy with gawking at him. The woman, however, looks to be completely at ease, a small smile playing his lips.

“I’m Johannah. Johannah Deakins. Most people call me Jay.” Her voice is soft and sweet, soothing Harry’s ears. It’s so motherly, and his heart aches for his own mum. Harry doesn’t know how to react, so he just says, “Hi.”

He’s still trying to place the familiarity- he  _ swears  _ that he’s seen her somewhere, or maybe someone like her.

“I’m Lottie. Charlotte Tomlinson.” The oldest girl interrupts smoothly. Harry turns his attention back to the crowd, and is met with dagger eyes. The girl’s blue eyes are sharp and angry, and Harry swallows nervously. Her eyes. They’re just like Louis’.

“Fizzy. Felicite Tomlinson.” The next girl, luckily, isn’t glaring at him. She has both of the babies in her arms, and she looks like a mini Charlotte.

“Daisy. Phoebe. Ernest. Doris.” The names keep coming, but they go over his head. All that he notices is the sharp blue eyes. All of them have the same color- exactly like Louis. The resemblance is uncanny.

He turns back to the woman and realizes that they all look similar- they must be related. But they’re last names are different, and their eye colors-

Oh.

This must be Louis’ family. Harry comes to the conclusion, connecting the dots.

“Are you, uh, Louis-” Harry stutters, cursing his nervousness and inability to speak properly.

“Yes, I’m his mother, and these are his sisters.” Jay smiles at him.

“Half-sisters,” Lottie butts in, and her voice is anything but nice. She then turns to her mother and sneers, “Why the hell is he here?”

“We’ve been through this before, Lotts. It was dangerous back at the headquarters.”

“I would have left him there,” Lottie snarls. “Nothing less than he would deserve.”

“Lottie!” Jay frowns disapprovingly, but the girl has already whipped around and stalked off. It’s silent for a moment, before the hushed chatter starts up again. The next oldest, Fizzie, seems torn between following her older sister and staying to continue looking at Harry.

Jay gives Harry an apologetic look, but he just shrugs it off. He’s had worse, and it’s not as though what Lottie said was not true.

He’s still uneasy, but the pace of his heartbeat is starting to lower as he gets over the initial shock. It’s almost as though his stress is coming off of him in waves, because the woman seems to catch on.

“Well, there’s some food on the table,” Jay says, pointing at the tray she had brought in earlier, before turning away. 

“Alright, girls, it’s time to leave. There’s a bit of grumbling, as they all seem to be quite curious and eager to continue staring at the prince, but they turn and leave, and just like that, it’s quiet again. 

Liam and Niall still linger in the room- Liam leaning against the wall, and giving Harry untrustworthy looks, and Niall sprawled out at the foot of the bed. The blonde is draped over his legs, lazily chewing on a chunk of bread- one of the pieces that was on Harry’s tray.

“Hi.” Niall says with a mouthful of the bread.

“Hi.” He replies, slightly uncomfortable. Harry is pretty sure that it’s not normal to be this touchy with strangers, especially enemies, but Niall seems completely relaxed and carefree. Liam just looks on cooly.

“Um…” Harry looks up at Liam, unsure of what to do, but immediately changes his gaze when Liam’s face goes from impassive to hate.

“Do I…” He helplessly gestures to the unknowing, uncaring form halfway on him. Liam replies with a glare before straightening up and announcing,

“I’m going to headquarters to see if there’s anything new on the Louis.” Niall just grunts. Harry, however, whips his head up. His stomach is churning with curiosity, but he pushes the interest down.

“And the general.” Liam adds in a teasing tone, and this gets Niall’s attention. His head shoots up.

“I want to come!” He’s almost halfway lifting himself up when Liam shakes his head.

“Nah, you get to stay here and babysit Princey,” Liam smirks before turning and flaunting out of the room. Niall looks at the doorway with disappointment.

“What, you don’t like my company?” The tease comes out accidentally, and he’s about to slap his hand over his mouth when Niall smiles.

“No. I don’t.” Niall says in a serious voice, but the humor in his eyes gives him away. Harry pretends to nod gravely-

“I see how it is.” Then, without thinking twice, he pushes Niall off of the bed. He flops onto the hard ground and groans with pain. Less than a second later, Harry’s heart stops.  _ Why the hell did you do that? What if he gets mad? _

His form is still, and Harry’s already starting to pull the blanket down to get out of bed and check on him when he starts laughing. Niall pops up before plopping back down on Harry’s legs, a wide grin across his face.

“I like you.” Harry smiles awkwardly at that.

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” Niall nods earnestly, before adding, “You’re the only person in this entire damn place that has manners.” Harry starts to say,  _ Well, I’m am the prince  _ when Niall says,

“Except Gem.” And there it is again- ‘Gem’. This time, Harry is sure that he says ‘m’.

“Gem?” Niall freezes.

“Is that, like, a name, or an abbreviation for General?” His heart is pounding, but he crushes the hope before it can bloom.

“I feel like I’m not supposed to tell you this.” Niall says. He’s now eyeing Harry curiously-he probably seems edgy, with wide eyes and an urgent voice.

“Please?” Harry tries, but Niall just shakes his head.

“Not up for discussion. Let’s talk about something else.”

“But… Gem…” Harry desperately needs to know what Gem stands for.

“But…no…” Niall copies him in a whining voice. “Changing topic. Let’s talk about…” Niall tries to think of something else.

“Where I am,” Harry suggests. He knows that there’s no hope, because Niall seems to be really stubborn. He might as well figure out what’s going on.

“You’re at Louis’ house.” Niall replies, short and down-to-the-point.

“And the people that were just in here?”

“Louis’ family.”

“And...Louis? Where’s Louis?” Harry tries to keep his voice conversational.

“On a mission. Top secret. Dangerous shit.” Unneeded and unexpected concern rises in Harry’s gut, and a frown is plastered on his face.

“Why do you care?” Niall looks slightly interested now. “And what happened yesterday night? He used to hate your guts.”

“Nothing.’ Harry’s voice ends up being four octaves higher than usual, squeaky and pitchy.

“Right.” Niall gives him a sarcastic look. “Anyways, we might as well get to know each other, since you’re gonna be here for a while,” There’s an implied message and threat underneath that, but Harry chooses to ignore it.

“So, there’s this great story I have…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	12. I'd Give Up Everything, Just Ask Me To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall’s blue eyes are sharp and calculating. They roam over Harry’s chest, at the scars and bruises. They seem to pierce through his skin, and he feels like Niall can see straight through him. The bright blue peels layer after layer of secrets off, and they can read Harry like an open book. It’s unnerving, really, how easily Niall is able to break through his walls. It’s almost as though he understands Harry better than himself.

 

     “So I say to her, uh,” Niall pauses to think of the name- “Angelina. I want to- I really,  _ really _ want to.” Harry gasps.

     “No way! You actually said that?” He’s sitting cross legged, on the opposite side of the bed from Niall as he tells a story. Niall just grins before replying,

     “Nah, this is a story that Louis told me. It’s great, though, innit?”

     “Yeah, go on.”

     “So then he says, ‘what about Brad?’, and I’m like, ‘Brad’s a son to me’. And then, she got all emotional, and started telling me about what an amazing, good man I was.” Harry burst out laughing.

     “No way! She actually believed your story?”

     “Yes! It was so funny!”

     “But Brad is, like, older than you.”

     “Angelina wasn’t even thinking straight- it was so easy to con her!”

     “So you’re saying that she wanted you, and she had thought that you wanted Brad, but Brad had nothing to do with it, and then you told her you think that Brad is like your son, so she thought that you weren’t interested in Brad, but you actually were, and you told her that you are interested in her, even though you aren’t.” Harry tries to get the facts straight, listing them off one by one with his fingers. He looks up, satisfied, to see Niall blinking at him slowly with doeish blue eyes.

     “What?”

     “Uhm, you thought that- no, wait, she wanted- you wanted- Brad is- she thought that you are- Brad isn’t- what?” Harry tries to recite his earlier explanation, but finds himself extremely confused.

     “Moving on,” Niall announces grandly, pretending to push the conversation to the side, “Let’s talk about something else.”

     “But the story…?” Harry pouts slightly, completely lost.

     “Fuck the story, I wanna know more about you,” 

     “Oh, uh,” He stutters, slightly surprised.

     “Oh, uh,” Niall repeats, mocking his slow drawl. “C’mon, there’s gotta be some sort of cool backstory or secret! You’re the prince! Where’s the pretty girls, the adventures, the food?” His blue eyes sparkle at the last one. “I bet you get the best food there,” He moans dramatically, flopping over and rubbing his belly pathetically.

     Harry thinks back to his own diet- bread, bread, lots of fresh fruit, more bread. He decides to keep his mouth shut and not ruin Niall’s dream.

     “Yeah, uhm, lots of good food,” Harry tries to sound enthusiastic. “Great food. Yummy food.” Niall eyes him suspiciously.

     “What’s wrong with you?”

     Harry can feel his cheeks turning bright pink, his neck flushing. He usually was a really good liar, but for some reason, his throat closed when he tried to say something wrong.

     “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m fine. Perfectly fine. There’s nothing wrong.” The word vomit tumbles out of his mouth, and he knows that his face is slowly turning into a tomato.

     “Mate, you’re looking pretty red. Do you need to lie down?”

     There’s a pressure on his chest, stopping him from breathing properly. He doesn’t know what’s happening- he was fine a second ago, and yet now, he can’t even talk. His mouth opens and closes, and he tries to reassure Niall that he’s fine, but a choked noise is all that comes out.

     “Do you have a problem with food?” Niall looks slightly insulted, but it changes to worry almost immediately. “Like, if you do, that’s fine. We can not talk about it.”

     Harry snaps his mouth shut and focuses on breathing through his nose.

     “Seriously, mate, are you alright?”

     Harry closes his eyes and sinks back into the pile of pillows and blankets.

     “Can you hear me? What’s happening?”

     Niall is suddenly crawling on top of him, and on top of his choking, there’s now a Niall-weighing pressure on his chest. He slaps his face-pretty hard-and through narrowed eyes, Harry can see Niall’s worried blue eyes hovering above him.

     “Can’t-breathe-get-off-please.” Harry gasps out, and Niall immediately rolls off of him.

     “Sorry.” His sheepish voice is right by Harry’s ear, and he mumbles something in reply. “Can you breathe now?”

     “Yeah, kinda,” His heartbeat is slowing, and the deep gasps he’s taking fill his lungs with air.

     “Right. What happened?”

     “I dunno. Couldn’t breathe.”

     “Sit up.” Niall’s voice suddenly goes sharp, and Harry turns his head to look at him questioningly.

     “C’mon, up, up, up.” He grabs Harry’s arm and forcefully drags him up.

     “What, why?”

     “You get more air, and it’s easier to breathe,” Niall explains, he forcefully pushes Harry until he’s leaning against the wall. “Lean forward a bit, too. It gives your lungs room to completely inhale and exhale, and it’s easier to get air.”

     “Well, you know what you’re doing.” 

     Niall snorts. “I’m the main medic for a reason.” That pipes Harry’s attention.

     “You’re a medic?”

     “Yep. Now shut up.”

     It’s silent for a while, and the whole time, Niall is staring at him intensely. It’s starting to bother Harry.

     “Do you have nightmares?” Niall questions him suddenly. Harry freezes.  _ What the fuck?  _ It was completely personal and secret- he’s only known Niall for a few days.  _ How the hell does he know? _ He has half a mind to lie, but the earnest expression on the blonde’s face changes his mind.

     “Yes.” His voice comes out curt.

     “Do you have panic attacks?”

     “Yes.” He hesitates for a second before answering.

     “Do you have anxiety?”

     “Um, I think so?” Harry really doesn’t understand what’s going on. The blue eyes seem to be staring right through him, and he’s never felt more exposed.

     “Do you have depression?”

     “Yes.” He clenches and unclenches his jaw, trying to stay calm as he thinks of the scars across his thighs.

     “Do you have flashbacks and memory relapses?”

     “Yes.” He’s about to snap.

     “Do you-” Niall tries, but Harry cuts him off.

     “Why are you asking these questions? What is your problem?” Niall just gives him a look that makes him seem too mature for his age. “Why do you want to know?” He asks him in a quieter voice. Niall doesn’t reply- he just keeps staring, his brow furrowed in concentration. He’s obviously in deep thought as he traces his eyes over Harry’s bare chest, taking in the scars and bruises.

     “I think you have PTSD.” His voice is low and grave, and Harry feels like it would be really dramatic, if  _ he fucking knew what it meant. _

     “What the hell is that?” Harry scowls. The mood, which was lighthearted and relaxing earlier, is now cold.

     “Post-traumatic-stress-disorder,” Niall says. Harry frowns at him. 

     “What?”

     Once again, Niall ignores him. He’s still staring, and Harry’s patience is running thin. He roughly yanks the blankets up, which causes Niall’s eyes to snap from his chest to his face.

     “PTSD.” He repeats. “Post-traumatic-stress-disorder.”

     “I know what you said, I’m not deaf. What does it  _ mean _ ?” Niall ignores him again.

     “How fucked up was your childhood?”

     Harry’s mouth snaps shut and he forgets to breathe for a moment.

     “ _ What? _ ”

     The question was sudden, but nothing could have prepared him for it. Niall’s wise eyes are still boring into him, and Harry desperately wants to lie, to yell and scream that  _ my childhood was perfectly normal  _ and  _ what the fuck do you want  _ and  _ why do you know about me _ but he can’t. Instead, he chokes out,

     “Pretty fucked up.” Niall nods with a frown. It’s silent after that- Niall seems to be thinking furiously, but Harry forces his mind to go blank, and he keeps his gaze focused on his hands, which are clasped together tightly and shaking.

     “Whatever happened,” Niall starts, “Whatever happened to you back then is what’s causing the nightmares and panic attacks and depression.”

     Harry bites his bottom lip to keep the  _ no shit _ from coming out. 

     “It’s usually caused by one specific event or person.” Niall’s voice sounds monotonous, like he’s reading it from a book. Harry thinks of his father.

     “Not like you should worry, though,” His voice turns light and uplifting and he gives Harry a crooked smile. “Most people here have some form of PTSD, although most don’t get panic attacks,” Niall muses.

     “Right.” Harry licks his lips. “PTSD. Nightmares and shit. Everyone’s fucked up, blah blah blah. Can we move on?” Niall just gives him another look with sparkling, curious eyes.

     “But it’s so interesting,” Niall protests. He starts mumbling quietly to himself- _ there’s obviously a backstory, shit now I really want to know what happened, this is the most serious case I’ve ever had- _

     “Alright, medic, snap out of it.” Harry groans. “I really don’t care.” Niall’s eyes widen comically before he blurts out,

     “But this is about your life! PTSD can completely change the way you think and act and-”

     “I get it.” Harry deadpans. The corners of Niall’s lips quirk up until he adds, “But I don’t care.”

     “It’s you  _ life _ .” Niall tries to explain, but Harry shakes his head.

     “I really don’t want to talk about it. Something else, please?” He widens his eyes, jutting his bottom lip out exaggeratedly. Niall groans.

     “Stop the puppy face! I swear, that’s worse than Liam's’.” He just keeps going, making sure his eyes are a glossy and bright green. Everyone (Okay, just Zayn and Gemma) tells him that his face is the one thing that can get him anything he wants. He still isn’t sure whether it’s an insult or compliment.

     “Don’t look at me like that!”

     “Like what?”

     “Like you’re gonna cry!”

     “I’m not!”

     “Yes you are!”

     “No, I”m not!”

     Niall retaliates by throwing the pillow at Harry. He catches it at the last second before throwing it back. Soon they’re taking turns tossing it back and forth as hard as they can, and Harry is faintly impressed at how hard Niall throws.

     After a particularly strong throw, Niall smirks.

     “My friends call me Niall The Gun.”

     “I question their sanity.”

     “So do I.”

     “And your mental health.”

     “So do-wait, what?”

     “And you have friends?”

     “Yes, I do, actually!”

     “I’m surprised.”

     “I’ll have it known that I have a girl, too!”

     “ _ What? _ ”

     “Yeah, she’s great.”

     Harry stares at him. Niall has a smitten look on his face and a dreamy smile. Harry pretends to gag.

     “Someone’s in love.”

     “Yeah. I’m so whipped.”

     Harry’s mind immediately drifts to  _ pain  _ and  _ blood _ . 

     “ _ What? _ ”

     “What?”

     “You just said-”

     “ _ What? _ ”

     “What?”

     “You said what!”

     “You asked me!”

     “What? No, I didn’t!”

     “You said it first!”

     “What are you talking about?”

     “What are  _ you  _ talking about?”

     It goes silent after that. They stare at each other, confused. Niall’s cheeks are flushed, and Harry tries to push down the bubbling humor. It doesn’t last long, however, and soon, they’re both laughing uproariously. 

     Harry doesn’t know why he’s laughing, but it feels great to just let go. When he finally calms down, Niall throws the pillow at him, but he wasn’t ready for it. With a squeak he topples over. Except the bed is too small. He ends up falling on the floor,  _ again _ , but after a stunned silence, they’re laughing.

     Niall helps Harry back onto the bed, and he slumps against the wall with a satisfied sigh. His stomach aches, in a good way, and he can’t stop the wide grin that spreads across his face. His cheeks hurt- he hasn’t smiled this much in quite a while.

     “So, changing topics.” Niall starts. “Let’s play twenty questions!”

     “What’s that?” Harry asks. 

     “It’s a game,” Niall  says. “Involving twenty questions.”

     “Oh, thanks, that was very helpful,” Harry drawls sarcastically, but he’s still smiling.

     “Don’t sass me, boy!” Niall giggles at him, but explains. “We ask each other questions, to know more about each other. It’s how true friendships are built.”

     “You can create friendships with this game?” Harry asks, suspicious. He’s never heard of it, and he was still able to become friends with Zayn. He doesn’t know whether or not to trust Niall. His eyes are wide and earnest, but there’s a troublesome smirk at the corner of his mouth.

     “Of course! I’ll start. Favorite color?”

     “Orange. Sunset orange."

     The question reminds him of Leanne and Lynette. He hasn’t seen them since he left the carriage, and all of the worry floods at him. He’s sure that the rebels would be nothing but kind to a family on their side, but there was still a nagging worry-

     What if they turned them away? What if they killed them? What if, what if, what if-

     “You alright, mate?” Niall asks. Harry frowns but nods. It’s the second time he’s acted weirdly, and he’s really hoping that Niall doesn’t mind how strange he is.  _ But what if he doesn’t? He probably doesn’t like me, he probably- _

     “Your face is starting to turn pink again,” Niall observes calmly. “Do you need to lie down?”

     “No, sorry, I just-” Harry cuts off. He wants to ask about the girls, desperately, but now he’s worried about seeming like a creep.

     “You just what?” Niall coaxes him. “C’mon, what is it?”

     “Are Leanne and Lynette, uhm…” He tries.

     “The two girls?” Niall interjects, looking quite surprised. “Oh, they’re both fine. We sent them to a family camp a ways away. The building you were in is the headquarters.” 

     Harry visibly sags with relief, although there’s a flash of disappointment-he’s probably never going to see either of them again.

     “I feel like I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” Niall adds. “Oh well. Let’s get back to the game. Do  _ you  _ have a girl?” Harry flushes.

     “Uh, no…” Bright blue eyes flash in his mind, and they’re not Niall’s.

     “Oh.” Niall looks slightly disappointed. “Anyways, now you ask a question.”

     “Me? Oh, okay, uhm, favorite…. animal?”

 

     They play for a while, and Harry actually learns quite a lot about Niall. Nothing about their pasts- they both get uncomfortable to talk about their families or childhoods, so they stick with light, non personal questions.

     It’s the most fun Harry’s had in  _ ages,  _ and he doesn’t even realize that it’s night until one of the girls- he’s pretty sure it’s Felicite- comes in with another tray. Niall immediately brightens up as he eyes the plate piled with warm food, and he makes grabby hands.

     Felicite, rather than leaving, joins them on the bed. She places the tray in the middle of the bed, and climbs up beside Niall as he pounces on the food.

     “Hi.” She grins at him. He returns it unsurely.

     “Hi, it’s Felicite, right?”

     “Yeah, you can just call me Fizzy.”

     At that, Niall lets out a choked sound and whips his head to stare at her.

     “ _ What? _ ” He cries out over a mouthful of food.

     “What?” Fizzy replies, confused. Niall chews rapidly and swallows before bursting out,

     “It took me a month to be allowed to call you Fizzy!” His tone is whiney as he complains. Fizzy has a slight blush as she replies,

     “Well, you’re you!”

     “A fucking  _ month _ !”

     “You were weird!”

     “It takes him less than a day!?”

     “He’s-he’s the prince!”

     “So he automatically your friend?”

     “Who said that?”

     “You said that only your friends call you that!”

     “No, I didn’t!”

     Harry looks back and forth, feeling out of place and slightly worried. They’re yelling at each other, their voices getting louder and louder, and he’s starting to freak out, until he realizes that they’re both smiling. Felicite turns to Harry with a sweet smile and says,

     “Sorry about this idiot.”

     “Watch who you’re calling an idiot!” Niall interjects.

     “Remember who cooks for you,” Fizzy threatens him. Niall immediately snaps his mouth shut and grabs another piece of bread, scowling at the two of them.

     “Anyways, I just came to apologize for Lottie from earlier. I swear she’s usually a lot better.” Fizzie gives Harry a sheepish grin. “She’s like a mini Louis.”

     “A mini Louis?” Harry frowns in confusion.

     “Yeah. She does  _ everything _ like him. They’re completely identical- they think the same, they look the same, they even dress the same! Louis has always hated the monarchy, and I guess she’s copied him in that aspect.”

     “Louis hates the monarchy?” Harry’s surprised. He remembers soft laughter, crinkling eyes, toothy grins. He certainly didn’t act like he hated the monarchy when they were talking.

     “Yeah, with a passion. I’m surprised that he even thought about bringing you back here.”

     “Oh.”

     “Well, that’s all I’ve got to say. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, I guess.” With that, she slipped off the bed and left, unaware of the inner turmoil she’d left Harry with.

     “I’m not talking to you. I still can’t believe she just let you call her Fizzy.” Niall crosses his arms over his chest and playfully glares at Harry.

     “You’re talking to me right now,” he points out. Harry turns his attention on the Irish blonde, grateful for the distraction. Usually, he’ll sit there and think for hours, worrying about pretty much everything in his life, but with this boy, he can’t even find the time to freak out.

     “Well, starting now I’m not!”

     “You still are,” Harry hums at him. Niall scowls. They sit quietly, neither of them talking.

     “...can I have the last piece of bread?” Niall breaks the silence, slightly embarrassed.

     “Oh, yeah, go ahead,”

     They spend quite a while longer, just talking and goofing around like lads. It feels great, to do normal things, things that boys his age are supposed to do. Eventually, their eyelids start to droop, and they can’t stop the tired yawns that escape, so they collapse on the mattress and fall asleep.

     Niall has an arm and leg wrapped around Harry, and he cuddles close, his chest pressed against Harry’s back. Harry just curls up with a content smile. It’s the first time that he’s fallen asleep with a smile since his mother died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


	13. Right Now I'm Completely Defenseless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s as though Harry’s underwater- everything is in slow motion. His vision is fuzzy, his ears ring, and his throat is closing. He’s unable to say a word, so instead he just stares at the shimmering blade in front of him, and the girl that’s holding it.  
> She’s pale, with hair so light that it looks silver, and the same bright blue eyes as her brother. There’s a calculated look in them, barely covering the tsunami of emotion behind it. Hatred, sadness, anger, fury, defeat. This girl, barely seventeen, has seen a world of hate and pain. In so many ways, she’s just like Harry.  
> But she’s still bright- she shines with defiance against the unfairness of the world. She still has that brilliant flame in her, the innocence and courage and hope.  
> Harry’s fire was destroyed years ago. It was gone before it had the chance to truly burn. This girl has an entire world ahead of her, but Harry is empty.

    Harry wakes up with Niall completely on top of him. The blonde is snoring softly, letting out little puffs of breath with every exhale that tickle his neck. The first rays of sunlight are starting to trickle in through the window, and Harry feels slightly disappointed that he missed the sunrise.

    He feels a lot better than before. His ankle still aches dully, but overall, the exhaustion, both physically and mentally, have eased. He feels quite hot, especially with Niall spread out on top of him, and he shifts slightly, trying to squirm his way out from under him without waking him up. It’s futile, however, because as soon as he tries to move, Niall grumbles and wraps his arms around tighter.

    “Please let go,” Harry whispers, but an affectionate smile crosses his lips. Niall replies with _the sun, it burns, it’s too bright, make it stop_ which causes him to laugh.

    “Are you a vampire?” Harry teases him, and Niall grunts with affirmation. Before he can react, Niall starts chewing on his neck.

    “See, I’m a vampire,” Niall mumbles sleepily and Harry shrieks and wiggles, trying to get away from Niall’s tight grip. It’s futile, however, but Harry doesn’t give up.

    “Be still, petty human, while I drink your blood.” Niall dramatically bites down, hard enough for Harry to gasp. He’s sure Niall left a mark- there’s probably a set of teeth indents in his neck now.

    “What the fuck is going on?”

    Harry flinches like he’s been scalded, pushing Niall away and sitting up. Niall rolls away and, miraculously, doesn’t fall off, managing to grab Harry around the waist. He just ignores the blonde, staring at the figure in the door.

    Louis looks pissed off, his blue eyes flashing dangerously and his lips pulled back into a snarl. Harry has no idea what he did wrong, but it must have been pretty bad to make Louis look so infuriated. A shiver involuntarily goes down his spine- the cold eyes are like freezing ice.

    “Calm down, Tommo,” Niall interjects. Harry rips his eyes away from Louis, looking down. Niall is now back to his former position, curled over Harry’s waist. He snuggles closer, his eyes fluttering closed, before murmuring, “S’ too early.”

    Harry gives him an endured smile- because you can’t fight the Irish charm- and leans back. His heart is still pounding from the earlier shock, but he’s a lot more relaxed. If Niall is at the point of falling back to sleep, then surely it can’t be that bad.

    “Horan, we’ve got four injured men at headquarters, and I’ve been up all night, so if you could get off my bed and be useful instead of fornicating with the prince, I’d be very happy,” Louis growls. Harry’s mouth drops in shock and his cheeks brighten, but Niall seems completely unaffected.

    “Fine, fuck with my sleeping schedule, will you?” Niall grumbles but complies, rolling of the bed and stretching, popping his back before strutting out of the room. The _see ya ‘round, Hazzy_ floats down from the hallway. The door slams, and Harry turns his attention back to Louis.

    Now that he actually looks, Louis seems exhausted. He has dark circles around his eyes, slumped shoulders, and he’s unconsciously rocking back and forth on his feet. Harry realizes that he’s still in the bed, in _Louis’_ bed.

    He scrambles off as he suddenly realizes that he’s the reason that Louis isn’t sleeping right now. In fact, he’s the reason that Louis _didn’t_ sleep at all. Now he feels worse for trying to run away and create a distraction.

    Louis completely ignores him and brushes past, immediately flopping down on the mattress where Harry just was, and shuts his eyes. Harry stands there awkwardly as Louis falls asleep immediately, hands fidgeting and unsure of what to do.

    After a few minutes, Harry decides to leave the room. It feels almost as though he’s invading Louis’ privacy by watching him sleep-although he will never admit it, he looks angelic. His eyelashes flutter with every breath, lips slightly parted, and he looks relaxed.

    After unconsciously admiring his kidnapper, he flushes pink and stumbles through the doorway. Without thinking, he keeps walking, trying to separate himself from the room where Louis is. The house is normal- there’s wear and tear, scratches and dents in the walls and floor, but it all adds up to seem homey.

    Harry strides down the hallway, turning the sharp corner, to realize that he has absolutely no idea where he is and what he’s doing. He’s never been in this house, and he’s surrounded by unfamiliar walls and rooms. He doesn’t want to go into any of the rooms, either, because it was personal.

    The next thing he notices is that he’s _still_ in just his underwear. This nakedness is starting to become bothersome, and he really doesn’t know what he’d do if he bumped into any of the young girls. To be honest, he’s mostly covered in bandages- his chest and legs and arms- but there’s still a good portion of bare skin.

    He decides to just keep going, still feeling slightly embarrassed from the earlier incident, and unsure of what he’s supposed to do. He strolls past a few more rooms, all bedrooms, before hitting a dead end, which he presumes is the back of the house.

    He turns around and heads back, hoping to find the front, where everyone most likely is. At least, he assumes that the rebels probably wouldn’t leave the prince alone with just one person guarding him.

    The knife is completely unexpected. The second he turns the corner, someone is letting out a yell of surprise and chucking it at his head. He lets his instincts take over, dropping flat on the ground before rolling backwards and flipping to his feet. The knife makes a _thunk_ above his head, and he reaches up and yanks it out of the wall before tossing it into a firm grip in front of him.

    Lottie is standing a ways away, gawking at him. She recovers, though, and replaces the shocked expression with a scowl before pulling out yet another knife and throwing it.  It’s actually a decent throw, but slow enough for Harry to deflect it.

    He flicks his own knife against the blade and forces it up, making it spin in the air before gravity pulls it back down. It falls behind him, right into his waiting hand, and he brings it forward, spinning it fancily before getting into a defending position.

    Okay, so maybe he was showing off. But he hadn’t touched a knife in _forever_ and it was always fun to toss them around. There was a certain spike of excitement, knowing that one mistake could cost you your life, but also knowing that you had the power to control it.

    Lottie is now blinking at him with wide eyes, completely pale. The high of tossing knives around leaves him as he remembers what’s going on. He’s currently a prisoner, part of the monarchy, and Lottie probably thinks that he’s some bloodthirsty evil guy.

    Who currently has two knives, while she is defenceless.

     _Shit._

    His first reaction is to put his hands in the air and surrender, which causes him to drop the knives. Of course, with his luck, he accidentally drops it right above his foot. With a squeak, he tries to dance around the falling blades, and somehow manages to keep both of his feet intact.

    However, the second he tries to take a step back with his injured ankle, which he had completely forgotten about, it collapses and he ends up on the floor. His knee hits the ground heavily, jarring his whole body, but he somehow manages to stay upright.

    His ankle throbs angrily, sending sharp bolts of pain up his leg. The splint, which had been supporting all of the weight from his leg, had broken when he dropped and rolled, and without anything to hold it up, his ankle had completely given out.

    Of course, Lottie’s first reaction is to dart forward, yank both of the knives out of the ground, and raise them threateningly. _Go ahead, attack the poor guy that’s on the ground,_ Harry thinks sarcastically. He rolls over onto his back to take the pressure off of his ankle and painfully brings his leg forward to inspect the injury.

    “What the fuck are you doing here?” Lottie asks. Her eyes are ice cold and furious, now that she has the upper hand, and Harry can’t help but compare her expression to Louis. They really are identical.

    “What the fuck are you doing here?” Lottie repeats. Harry’s starting to feel slightly woozy from the pain, but he tries to clear his mind and answer.

    “Your brother kicked me out of the room,” he mumbles. His attention is on his throbbing ankle. It’s swollen, almost twice its normal size, bright red and angry.

    “And why the hell are you here?” Harry ignores her and pokes it. _Ow._

    “I asked you a question!” Note to self: Don’t poke it.

    “I was giving myself a tour.” His tone must have been too sarcastic, because a split second later, the blade is resting under his chin. He can feel the point of the blade against his throat. He frowns, looking up at Lottie. She’s still quite pale and her hand is shaking slightly, but she’s got a look of determination and her eyes are narrowed with anger.

    Harry can feel a headache coming, and his vision is starting to blur. He refuses to pass out, though, and focuses on looking ahead. Conveniently, Lottie’s hand and the handle of the knife is right in front of him.

    Harry studies the hand. The grip is too tight- if he decided to grab the end and twist the knife, he could easily break or at least sprain her wrist. The shaking needs to stop, too, because it’s obvious that she’s afraid. Not showing fear is one of the most important things. Fake it till you make it- it’s one of the do-or-die phrases that could actually save your life.

    Of course, Harry’s brain isn’t working properly, which also means that his brain-to-mouth filter isn’t working, either, and he ends up telling her everything that he’s thinking.

    Lottie’s reaction is anything but pleasant- the knife gets a warning shove to his throat, and Harry knows that just a bit further and the skin would be cut. He also notes with satisfaction, that the grip loses slightly and stops shaking.

    “What were you planning on doing?” Lottie continues her interrogation. Harry disregards the question.

    What he does notice, though, is another flaw in her technique. A knife to the throat is always a good threat- to someone inexperienced. And Harry liked to think that he was at least slightly experienced, with sixteen years of training.

    Lottie’s problem was that his back wasn’t against the wall. He had a good meter distance between the two, which meant that he could easily dodge the knife. It would take less than two seconds for him to jerk his head back, fall to the floor, roll and slam into the front of her knees, push her over, grab her wrist, force the knife against her throat, and get her in a headlock.

    “Shut the fuck up!” Lottie’s foot slams against his chest and pushes him back until he’s pinned against the wall. Oops. He must have said it out loud.

    “What is going on?” A voice rings out across the hallway, accompanied by loud footsteps. Liam appears behind Lottie, a sword drawn and ready. He takes in the scene, Lottie’s furious face and Harry’s dazed one.

    “I found him casually strolling down the hallway,” Lottie explains. Harry blinks owlishly and looks up with glassy eyes. The pressure of Lottie’s foot on his chest is making it slightly uncomfortable to breath.

    “Well?” Liam raises an eyebrow, staring down at him. It takes Harry a second to realize that he’s asking him.

    “I was walking down the hallway,” Harry slurs. He frowns. Why is it so hard to talk? “I was strolling. I think.” He frowns and tries to remember.

    “I don’t know if I was casual, though. It might have been. But I’m pretty sure I was strolling. Like, walking casually. Except maybe not that casual, because-” Dark spots enter his vision.

    “Wow. Why are there three of you?” Everything goes a blinding white, then a fuzzy grey, then an empty black.

***

_It was pouring outside. The sky is pitch black, cloudy, dreary. Thunder rumbles in the distance, barely heard over the roaring rain and wind, and every once in awhile, a flash of lightning illuminates the castle grounds before everything gets covered in shadows once more._

_Harry is cold to the bone as he sits perched on the tree limb. Water beats against his flattened hair, rolling off his nose and chin and the tips of his fingers.. It seems to soak into him, spreading the ice under his skin._

_The water collects on his eyelashes before dripping from the weight, and they mix in with his tears. Zayn’s late. Harry really doesn’t want to know why. His father’s yells echo in his ears from earlier, attacking and overwhelming the kind words Gemma had cooed in his ears afterwards._

_Harry feels strangely empty. It’s the same feeling that he had when his mother died. A part of him was just gone, torn off and turned to dust. It was heartachingly familiar._

_Zayn’s figure appears from the darkness. His head is down, shoulders slumped, and every step is filled with defeat. The older boy makes his procession across the muddy courtyard before slowly climbing the tree and slouching next to Harry._

_“You can’t see the stars.”_

_They sit in silence, staring off into the distance, giving unspoken reassurance to each other._ **_It’s okay. It will be okay. Someday, perhaps, it will be okay._ **

_It had been three days since Safaa, Waliyha, and Doniya had gone missing. They’d disappeared in the middle of the night. Only hours before, Zayn had refused to kill the young boy who had been accused of theft. Both Harry and Zayn knew that it was no coincidence._

_Harry had been up in his room when Zayn burst in, sobbing and out of breath. They’d tried, without results, to find his three sisters. It was as though they’d disappeared of the face of the earth._

_Zayn’s father, the commander-in-chief, was a cold, terrifying man. He was quite similar to the King in personality, and it was no wonder that they got along. Harry and Zayn knew that both of their fathers had to do with the girls’ disappearance._

_They meet up every night, to compare what they’ve found and to share what they’ve heard. So far, nothing. This continues for a month, a painstaking thirty days. Thirty days where Harry can’t sleep at night, different scenarios flashing in his mind. Thirty days where Zayn stops eating, stops talking, and a haunted dullness fills his eyes._

_And on day thirty-one, they appear. In the form of three still bodies, completely untouched and unmarked. A villager finds the dead bodies of three young girls floating in the river just a few miles away._

_The funeral is grim and filled with fake sorrow. No one cares for the commander-in-chief’s daughters, because no one knew them except Harry and Zayn. Fake tears are shed, and a day later, it’s as though nothing had happened._

_But the unspoken threat hangs above Zayn’s head, and he’s just a ghost of who he used to be. His three sisters, the light of his world, are gone because of him. Harry watches desperately as his best friend slips through his fingers, out of reach and untouchable._

***

    The nightmare is worse than usual, and Harry comes to consciousness with shoulders wracked with sobs and tear stained cheeks. There’s no one in this room, and Harry can tell that it’s night again.

    The bed is similar to the other one he’s been on, and thankfully, there’s a pillow. He shoves his face into the downy cloth, biting his lip to keep the noise in. His eyes are puffy and he’s sure he looks like a mess.

    He lets the tears continue until they run out, until his entire body stops heaving. He’s exhausted, all of the energy drained from his body, so he just lies there, staring up at the ceiling and mentally berating himself. _Pathetic. Useless. What kind of King cries?_

    It could be seconds, minutes, hours that he lingers somewhere between dozing and consciousness. The moon is a bright crescent, surrounded by glittering stars. It’s peaceful, and every once in awhile, a bird sings out.

    “-found him halfway across the house. Some sort of fight with Lottie.”

    “Any cuts or bruises?”

    “No, it just looked like a tussle.”

    “But he’s unconscious?”

    “He randomly passed out.”

    “Alright, leave us for a while.”

    Niall and Liam’s voices float through the slight crack in the doorway. A second later, one pair of footsteps recede while the other one stops. The door opens, and Niall’s grinning face appears with a glowing lamp.

    He steps into the room and carefully sets the flickering flame on the bedside table before plopping himself on the foot of the bed.

    “Hey. Fainted again, huh?” Niall’s voice is teasing and light. He has a slight smile, filled with warmth and understanding and friendliness, and Harry lets the corners of his mouth tilt up.

    “Yeah. It’s starting to get annoying. This is, what, my fourth time passing out since we met?”

    “It must be my hotness. People have been known to faint in my presence. You must not be worthy of me.” Harry chokes out a laugh.

    “No, but, seriously. I _never_ pass out. At least, not till now.” Harry is slightly frustrated at himself- he hates feeling so defenceless and weak.

    “That’s your body’s way of telling you to take it easy. You’ve been running around like an idiot for the past few days when you should be resting. It’s no wonder that your body’s been making you stop.” Niall sounds slightly serious now. “From this moment on, you’re on permanent bed rest.”

    Harry makes a face at that, but Niall gives him a look. “Seriously, I will tie you to the bed if you try to get up.”

    “Kinky?” Harry offers, and with that, Niall is back to his usual cheerful self.

    “Nah, I don’t think Louis would appreciate that,” He chuckles. Harry frowns.

    “What?” Niall freezes and then blinks up at him.

    “Oh, come one, please tell me you’re not that oblivious.”

    “What?”

    “You actually haven’t noticed?”

    “What?”

    “Mate, this is gold! How do you not know?”

    “Niall, _what are you talking about?”_

    “You’re the only person other than his family, Liam, me, and-” Niall cuts off abruptly and his face darkens. “-Liam and me that he’s brought home.” Harry is extremely confused.

    “Well, I _am_ the Prince,” Harry says slowly, his mind whirring. _What does he mean? What do I not know? What have I not noticed?_

    “Way to be modest,” Niall snorts, and then the conversation is over. Niall starts talking about something- Harry’s not sure what- but he doesn’t listen. He’s still puzzled and confused by what Niall said.

     _What do I not know?_

    Louis’ soft smile fills his vision.

     _What have I not noticed?_

    Louis’ eyes crinkle when he’s laughing.

     _What am I oblivious about?_

    Louis’ eyes are the brightest blue he’s ever seen.

     _What does Niall know?_


	14. I've Got Scars, Even Though They Can't Always Be Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s entire life revolved around Zayn after his three sisters died. He focused completely on keeping Zayn from shattering to pieces. His words were glue, tape, but he didn’t know if it would be strong enough to keep the glass shards together. He desperately used all of his energy in holding Zayn up, and even as exhausted as he is, he forces his tired mind to keep working.  
> But he’s been so driven in keeping Zayn together, he hasn’t noticed himself starting to crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be out of town for three weeks with no internet access, which means no updates :(   
> So, because you aren't getting anything for quite a while, I decided to make this one extra long :)  
> I'll see you all in a while! Sorry!

    Harry decides to let it go, because there’s no point in worrying about something that Niall obviously wasn’t going to tell him about. He always thinks things through too deep, and ends up going insane over it. Whatever happens would happen, but Harry wasn’t going to think about it until it became a problem.

    Ah, logic. If only he’d had it a few years ago.

    Harry pulls his arms up, stretching until his spine popped. He’d always had a bad back, after a bad incident with his father years ago. The strenuous activities that he’d taken part in every day had slowly destroyed his posture until it felt natural to have a slump, and the extra muscles he’d gained forced it to curve more. The past few days hadn’t helped it, either.

    Niall had dozed off in the middle of their conversation late last night. He was curled up at the edge of the bed, in what seemed like an uncomfortable position. Harry watches the way his blonde hair shifts slightly with every breath. Even while sleeping, he has a slight smile.

    Niall was like the younger brother he never had. He was just so  _ positive, _ all the time, and Harry couldn’t help but like him. To be honest, Niall was the most comfortable and familiar person he’d met, with his charisma and humor, and Harry could actually say that Niall was a friend.

    Harry stays in his relaxed position for a while, before he decides to make Niall more comfortable. He sits up carefully, noting his aching bruises, and stretches over to the end of the bed. Lifting Niall is, surprisingly, a quite easy task. The boy is light, even with the amount of food he eats.

    It’s almost scary, how light he is. Harry gives him a full body check, noting his skinny legs and arms, his rounded face. There’s no signs of unhealthiness or starvation, but a closer look tells him differently. 

    Niall used to have muscles. Although he’s now stick thin, with no fat and limited muscle, Harry could tell by the way his arms and legs curve slightly. Harry really can’t imagine Niall as a ripped, buff person, but there’s the aftermath of strength.

    With a closer look at Niall’s stomach, Harry can see the way his skin is stretched, almost to the point of breaking. There’s only one possible scenario for this- Niall was starved. He must have been extremely, close-to-death skinny and underfed, before somehow getting food and growing into his body.

    The worse thing, Harry finds, is the scars littered all over his body. It makes sense, especially as a rebel from a tough past, but this is a little far. To be honest, it’s almost as bad as Harry’s, himself. He’s got little white lines all over, most likely from some sort of blade, but some of them are bigger, and others are stab marks. The most disturbing is the puffed up brand on his left hip.

    It’s quite small, but very recognizable. The 021 and VINCENT are a dark red, sticking up out of his pale white skin. It must have been burned on, and Harry knows firsthand how much that hurts.

    What had happened to him?

    Harry stares at the motionless figure beside him, his mind racing. Who would possibly want to do this to him? He’d heard and read many stories about people that would kidnap kids off the streets and force them to work.  _ And prostitution, _ a small voice in the back of his mind adds. Harry pushes it away. He couldn’t bear the thought of Niall being forced to-

    He shakes his head. It wasn’t his place to think about his past. He was already invading his privacy by looking at this. He pulls Niall’s shirt back down and slumps against the pillow. His eyes are heavy and a yawn escapes him.

    Niall, in his sleep, mumbles something quietly before turning over to face Harry. His arms unconsciously wrap around Harry’s waist, and he cuddles closer. It’s the same position as the morning before, and Harry smiles enduringly. 

    Then he remembers Louis. The tips of his mouth quirk down as he thinks of the rude attitude of the other boy. It was probably just due to lack of sleep, but it was still slightly bothering. If Louis stumbled into this room in the morning, Harry would probably laugh at the coincidence.

    He drifts off to sleep, thinking about Louis.

 

    Harry was probably asleep for a few hours before he’s woken up. However, it’s not due to the sun this time. Niall is writhing beside him, letting out heartbreaking sobs and gasps.

    “Please, no, I don’t want to. Don’t make me.” He’s muttering under his breath as he fights the invisible force of his nightmares.

    Harry rolls over to get nearer and tries to touch Niall’s shoulder. In return, Niall throws a fist back at him, and Harry barely manages to catch it before it hits his face. Niall is fighting back with all of his strength now, struggling to get out of his grip.

    He’s still muttering under his breath, something indistinguishable, but Harry is glad that he’s not yelling. It would be troublesome to try and explain that he didn’t do anything.

    It only takes a few seconds to see that Niall knows how to fight. Harry manages to grab Niall’s other wrist, being careful to make sure it doesn’t bruise, and tries to contain the Irish boy. Harry takes back what he said earlier- Niall still has quite a lot of muscle, hidden beneath his scrawny arms.

    The fight ends once Harry flips himself on top of Niall and hugs him tightly, effectively pinning his arms to his sides. He uses his greater size to stop Niall’s frantic jerking. They’re both out of breath, and Harry makes sure to try and keep most of his weight off of the other boy.

    Niall’s eyes slowly flutter open. Harry relaxes, thinking that Niall would realize the difference between reality and dreams. Niall is still limp, and Harry is about to roll off of him when he gets a glimpse of his blue eyes.

    They’re haunted and empty. The breath escapes Harry’s lungs as he sees them- they remind him of Zayn’s, after his sisters died. They’re dazed and unfocused, and as they look up to see Harry, there’s no spark of recognition.

    Niall tenses before making his move, which gives Harry just enough time to anticipate it. Niall jerks up suddenly, trying to struggle out from under Harry, but he’s unsuccessful. Harry is quite heavy, with his height and muscles, and he’s somehow able to keep control of Niall.

    “Niall. Niall!” Harry hisses at the other boy, who is still jerking his entire body. “It’s me. Niall!” The other boy ignores him, letting out rapid panicked gasps. He’s still stuck in some sort of gruesome memory.

    “Please, Niall!”

    “Get off of me, no, stop it, don’t, please,” Niall spews the words out as he struggles, alternating between pleading and cursing. “Fuck, shit, no, get off of me you dickhead, damn it!”

    “Niall, it’s me, please!”

    Niall keeps repeating himself, struggling, but Harry waits. Zayn used to have these sort of nightmares, where he’d wake up screaming, and Harry had his fair share of them, too. There was nothing to do except wait it out.

    It takes around thirty minutes for Niall to completely calm down. Harry just holds him tightly, cooing softly in his ear. He rolls off of him when Niall stops fighting, but keeps his arms wrapped around him.

    Niall’s breathing eventually evens out, and they lay there silently for a while. There’s tear tracks down Niall’s cheeks, and his face is flushed and pale. 

    “Sorry.” 

    Niall is the one that breaks the silence, his voice raspy and low. 

    “It’s fine.” Harry replies. He runs his fingers through Niall’s fluffy hair, and tries to calm him down more.

    “I get- I mean, I have nightmares every once in awhile.” Niall sounds exhausted and broken.

    “It’s fine.” Harry repeats himself. “Do you want to talk about it?”

    He’s not exactly a therapist or anything, but he remembers how much better he felt once he had told Zayn- it was as though the weight lifted off his shoulders, because the truth was out and he had another person to share the burden of memories with.

    “There’s only one other person who knows,” Niall’s voice is soft and he plays with his hands, twisting them with agitation. They lapse into another silence, before Niall says abruptly,

    “Oh, fuck it.”

 

    “I was five, I think, when me mum and da died. Soldiers or something, I don’t remember. It was just me and my brother, Greg, who was twelve at the time. We lived on the road, going from city to city, stealing and kissing up to old ladies and shit. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was okay. 

    “Then Greg goes ahead and knocks up some girl, they have a kid called Theo. I’m around ten by then, when he settles down, and I decide to leave. I didn’t want to be a part of some happy family, because look at what happens when you get attached. They all die.

    “I left them and went wandering by myself. It wasn’t to bad, really, until I bumped into Vincent.”

    Niall pauses to lift his shirt up, showing Harry his brand.

    “He ran an underground club sort of thing. He picked kids up off the streets, made ‘em fight each other. I was the exact kind of guy he looked for- orphan, no family and no one who cared what happened to me. 

    “He knocked me out, took me off the streets into his elaborate system. There were probably fifty or so kids, all rough and tough and willing to kill, in order to live. Kind of like a twisted parody, huh?” 

    Niall lets out a cold chuckle. His face is impassive, stone cold, reciting as though he was reading.

    “I didn’t want to fight, at first. I hated the idea of hurting other people, kids just like me. It’s actually part of the reason I decided to become a medic. There was this boy, his name was Josh. We became close friends, until he was killed. Murdered, really, by another one of the boys. I really didn’t think then, I was just so mad and I didn’t know what to do. I killed the boy.

    “After that, it was as though a lever was pulled. I learned to fight. It was do or die, pretty much. I fought, stayed away from other people, and survived. Then there was a girl.”

    Niall hesitates and eyes Harry. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth, blue eyes flickering guiltily. He obviously knows something.

    “She was- is great, really. The only other person that I got close to, other than Josh. And really tough. Could hold her own against anyone. One of the only girls in the entire place. She was actually kidnapped, not just taken from the streets. Vincent went specifically for her. Got sold by the- by her father. 

    “I fell in love. Knew everything about her, too, and she knew about me. We eventually took down Vincent’s organization. I killed him myself. We freed all of the other kids and escaped, just the two of us.

    “We met Louis and Liam along the way, and decided to take down the monarchy. It might sound stupid now, but at the time, we were just two kids in love. At that point, we could do anything. And, well, we got this far.

    “Us three boys became the co-captains, and my girl was General. A born leader, she is.”

    Niall smiles. Harry can’t help but grin, too, looking at the way his entire face lights up at the thought of her. It’s sweet really, and Harry can’t help but admit that he’s a complete romantic, although he’d never say it out loud.

    “Disgusting, you really are.” Harry teases him lightly. Niall looks much better than before, his eyes shining and his lips curled upwards.

    “You just wait, you’ll be biting your words,” Niall smirks back at him. He has a knowing look in his eyes.

    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry laughs. “I haven’t even met anyone I like!”

    “That’s what you think. God, you’re so ignorant!” 

    Harry pouts. Niall squishes his face so that he’s forced to smile mechanically.

    “No frowns here!”

    “Gerroff meh,” Harry mumbles through frozen lips. Niall releases his tortured cheeks and Harry rubs them ruefully.

    “Wait, this girl is alive, right? Where is she?”

    “She’s on a special mission. You’ve heard of the Shadow Rebel, right?”

Harry snorts.

    “I don’t know whether that laugh is at the absurdity of  _ not  _ knowing about him, or how cheesy the name was. I’m going to go with both.” Niall grins at him.

    “Anyways, she’s trying to get in contact with him. We all have been, because he would be an amazing asset for the rebel side. But he’s so fucking  _ hard _ to find.” Harry hums in agreement.

    “The royal guards have been chasing him for ages, but they’ve never even found a hint. That guy is insanely good at what he does. Your girl isn’t gonna find him unless he wants to be found.”

    “We can try, though. Besides, wouldn’t he want to be part of the rebel movement? I mean, he’s literally against the monarchy.”

    “Yeah, but he works alone, right? All he really does is hunt down different nobles and guards of the monarchy. He’s killed, like, hundreds of them and just disappears without a trace. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone else with him. He might work better by himself.”

    “I know, but…” Niall trails off. “Whatever happens, happens, right? All we can do is just sit and wait.”

    Harry leans back and relaxes. The first rays of sun are pouring through the window, and it highlights reds and oranges on Niall’s face, contrasting with his bright blue eyes. It’s as though he’s on fire.

    “So, what’s your girl’s name?” Harry asks conversationally. Niall has been intentionally avoiding her name this entire time, and it’s been bothering him. He’s been suspicious every time he gives away part of her identity, and Harry wants to know why.

    “Classified information, that is,” Niall replies smoothly. “Can’t tell you, sorry, mate.” He seems at ease, but Harry heard the hitch in his breath, the way Niall’s eyes don’t meet his.

    “Besides, she’s coming back soon. You’ll get to meet her in a few days.” Harry frowns at him. He really wants to know who this mystery girl is.

    “Ugh, now you’re making me feel bad. Stop it!” Niall whines at him, pushing softly at his shoulder. “You’ll know when you know. Don’t give me puppy eyes.” Harry fixes his features to please Niall, but he’s still extremely eager to know who it is.

    “You were right- I feel alot better now that I’ve told you all of my secrets and stories,” Niall changes the subject. Harry is about to say  _ except for the name of your girl _ but Niall cuts him off.

    “Do you have a sad backstory you want to share?” Harry hesitates. Zayn, Gemma, and Nick were the only people who truly knew him, and even with that, Zayn was dead, Gemma was gone, and Nick wasn’t that close to him. One look at Niall’s earnest, innocent expression decides for him.

    “Alright.” He takes a deep breath, and starts.

 

    His mind goes numb has he starts from the beginning. He describes his happy life- him, Gemma, and his mother were so close. His father was overbearing and scary, but life was great. Then his mother dies. He tries to explain how he felt when his mother died, tries to puts his feelings into his words, and Niall just smiles softly and nods to show that he understands.

    He talks about Gemma- what she looks like, what she sounds like, how brave and sweet and strong she was. Something flashes across Niall’s face, but it disappears just as fast as it appears, and Harry just plunges onwards.

    His father is a hard subject to breach. He can’t really explain what it was like, and he really doesn’t want to revisit the memories that he has locked away. He just gestures to his bare chest and says,  _ he did this _ and Niall understands.

    He explains how Nick saved his life over and over, how he was the father figure Harry had always wanted and needed. Niall realizes why he had to let Nick escape, and he just smiles softly and encourages him to keep him going.

    Zayn is even harder to talk about. He thinks about not talking about his childhood best friend, but as bad as that part of his past was, he isn’t willing to erase all of the nights he spent with Zayn, the way he felt  _ free _ when he was with him. It’s at the end of this part of his story that he freezes- how is he supposed to explain what happens?  _ I’ll get back to it later, _ Harry says to Niall.  _ I can’t do this right now, _ and Niall nods and lets him move on.

    He explains how Gemma was always there for him, even when Zayn was gone. Harry is able to recite the note word for word, every letter. He pours all of his sadness into it, all of his pain and suffering. Niall holds him tight as he cries silently and tries to make him understand how he felt when she left. He can’t.

    He isn’t able to, so instead, he shows Niall his thighs, the self-inflicted scars. Niall doesn’t shy away in disgust like he expected. Instead, he holds him tighter and makes him promise to never hurt himself again. That’s when he realizes how much he needed this- how much he needed a friend like Niall.

    He describes how his life was pretty much over after Gemma left. There really wasn’t anything there after her, and the next few years were filled with nothing but pain and emptiness. In an ironic way, getting kidnapped was one of the best things that had happened to him. 

_     I want to join the rebel movement. _ Niall just beams at him and hugs him tight. Harry feels warm all over- someone appreciates him. Someone actually wants him. He promises himself to try his hardest for Niall. He doesn’t want this feeling to go away.

    He’s described his life, front to back, except for one part- Zayn. It’s his closest guarded memory, one of the worst nightmares of his past, the one bitter secret he’s never told anyone. Until now.

    “Zayn’s death was my fault. I killed him.”

* * *

_     It had been almost a year since Zayn’s sisters died. He still blames himself for their death, but he’s starting to piece his life back together. Harry sees him smile sometimes, and the haunted, empty look in his eyes is sometimes forced out by genuine happiness. It’s been a long fight, and it’s still ongoing, but Zayn is starting to come back. _

_     It’s been so long since Harry has felt whole- without Zayn being himself, he can’t focus on anything else. Zayn’s well being is the most important thing at the moment, and as sad and dangerous as it is, Harry’s happiness is just a reactant to Zayn’s. He can’t truly be happy unless Zayn is. _

_     Gemma is the only stability in their lives. The both depend on her wholly, because she can stay calm and collected. She can hide her feelings, and be the anchor they need. They spend every day trying to avoid their fathers, in their tree, up on the castle roofs, or in the forest. _

_     Harry spent long hours in the castle library, too. He’d pour himself into the books and maps and charts, reading and learning about everything there was to know. History, science, mathematics, culture, his country. He’d rub his aching, burning eyes and continue in candlelight, long past midnight and into the morning hours, promising to be a better King than his father. A king worthy of his people. _

_     In the morning, after an hour or two of sleep, he’d drag his weary body away from the book he’d fallen asleep on and train with Zayn. Before, they had both hated any sort of fighting or exercise, because their fathers would force them to, but they were driven for a different reason this time- revenge. _

_     They’d mock fight with swords, knives, spears, bare hands. They’d go on long runs in the forest, toning themselves to become stronger. Better. Good enough to fight back. They’d train with thoughts of how they’d kill, how they’d exact their vengeance. _

_     On days where Zayn was exhausted or didn’t want to train, he’d wander around the capital. The main city wrapped around the castle, where it stood proudly in the center. He knew that the capital itself was mostly well-off, with nobles and higher-up people, but he could still see where the poor had left their marks. _

_     He’d stroll around, watching his people, seeing what they were like, noting problems within the city and finding ways to solve them once he became King. Sometimes he’d go further, to other cities less well-off. Then, at night, before he resumed his studying, he’d write down everything he’d learned that day. _

_     Life was beginning to look up. _

_     Then his father had realized that he went missing for hours on end every day. _

_     The King told him that his studies and training with him would start again. Harry loathed him by now, and he refused. He didn’t want anything to do with the King; he was just waiting until he had the chance to rule and fix all of the mistakes his father made. _

_     It was the worst decision of his life. _

_     Although he had felt amazing, turning and walking away from his father, the results were devastating. His life continued on, and he realized with twisted glee, that his father had not done anything. He could test his boundaries- perhaps at this point, he would have more freedom than before. _

_     It was night when they came, dragging him out of bed. He’d fought, but it had been hopeless- there were simply too many. He was taken down to one of the cellars. It was cold and dark. _

_     Zayn was pulled in just a while later, after Harry was chained up and helpless. He couldn’t do anything but watch as his father pulled out a knife. The commander-in-chief was there, too, watching his son with cold eyes. _

_     Harry can’t breathe-all of the air has been sucked out of his lungs. His and Zayn’s eyes meet. They’re both filled with panic and fear, and time freezes for a second. Then Zayn is dragged to the ground and everything is moving too fast. _

_     Harry is pulling at the chains on his wrist. He can feel blood already soaking from the red circles around his arms, dripping onto the stone floor. He watches in horror as his father pulls out a knife. _

_     It glints dully in the torchlight. Harry’s eyes are glued to the blade as it is brought down against Zayn’s tan skin. A red line appears. And another. And another. _

_     Every single cut seems to burn into Harry’s own skin. Zayn’s screams echo throughout the room. It’s just the three of them now- the guards have left, along with Zayn’s father. _

_     The cuts get deeper, more savage. Blood pours out of the lines, bright, angry crimson. There’s blood, so much blood. Harry can’t even see the skin on Zayn’s back anymore. _

_     “You did this, Harry. You did this to him.” _

_     “If you had listened, this wouldn’t have happened.” _

_     “You should be ashamed of yourself.” _

_     “You’re the reason Zayn is getting cut.” _

_     “You’ve broken the trust you had.” _

_     “This is all your fault.” _

_     “Maybe you should have listened to me, huh?” _

_     Zayn’s screams echo in his ear. It’s all he can hear. His eyes are closed, and his back is a bloody mess. His father whistles and a guard appears.  _

_     “Take him out to the woods. He’ll either bleed out or the wolves will get to him.”  _

_ Harry watches as Zayn’s unconscious body is dragged out of the cell. A trail of red and echoing screams are all that’s left of his best friend. _

_     “You killed Zayn.”  _

_     His father’s voice rings in his ears, followed by fading footsteps, and then he’s left all alone. He finally understands what it feels like to be truly broken. He can’t find a reason to live. His mother is dead, Zayn is now dead. He should be dead, too. Zayn should be alive, not him. He needed to disappear before he killed Gemma, too. _

_     Harry sat there in the cold, blood dripping down his wrists, pooling onto the ground, mixing with Zayn’s.  _

__ **_I killed him._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: thecolorsofharry

**Author's Note:**

> comment, like, and all that stuff :)
> 
> tumblr: [thecolorsofharry](http://thecolorsofharry.tumblr.com/)


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